THE 

WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 



WITH 



AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, 



AND 



CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS. 

TO WHICH IS PREFIXED, 

80ME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION 
OF THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 

BY JAMES CURRIE, M. D. 

A NEW EDITION— FROM THE LAST LONDON EDITION. 
FOUR VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE, 

WITH MANY ADDITIONAL POEMS AND SONGS, AND AN 
ENLARGED AND CORRECTED GLOSSARY. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
CLAXTON, EEMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 

819 & 821 Makket Strekt, 

187L 



•y -'-^, 



m. HUTCHESON, 
8 0'06 






OP 



THE AUTHOR. 



ROBERT BURNS was bora on the 29th day of 
• auaary, 1759, in a small house about two miles from 
the town of Ayr in Scotland. The family name, which 
.he poet modernized into Bums, was originally Bumea 
or Bumess, His father, William, appears to have 
been early inured to poverty and hardships, which he 
bore with pious resignation, and endeavoured to alle- 
viate by industry and economy. After various at- 
tempts to gain a livelihood, he took a lease of seven 
acres of land, with a view of commencing nurseryman 
and public gardener : and having built a house upon it 
with his own hands (an instance of patient ingenuity 
Oy no means uncommon among^his oountrymeu in 
hvmble Ufe,) he inairied, Dec«mber 1757, AgQes 
Brown.* The first fi uit of his marnaga was Robert, 
the subject of the present sketch. 

In his sixth year, Robert was sent te a,.scbool, where 
he -nade considerable proficiency in reading and wri- 
tiixg, and where he discovered an inclination for books 
not very common at so early an age. About the age of 
thirteen or fourteen, he was sent to the parish school 
of Dalrymple, where he increased his acquaintance 
with English Grammar, and gained some knowledge 
iif tlie French. Latin was also recommended to him ; 
uut he did not make any great progress in it. 

The far greater part of his time, however, was em- 
ployed ou his fatJier's farm, which, in spite of much 
mdustry, became so unproductive as to involve the 
family in great distress. His father having taken 
another farm, ihe speculation was yet more fatal, and 
involved his affairs in complete ruin. He died, Feb. 13 
1784, leaving behind him the character of a good and 
wise man, and an affectionate father, who, under all 
his misfortimes, struggled to procure his children an 
excellent education ; and endeavoured, both by pre- 
cept and example to form their minds to reli^ou and 
tiriue. 

>.«T(ras between the fifteenth and sixteenth year of 
flis age, that Robert first '* committed the sin of rhyme." 
l!avir.g formed a boyish affection for a female who was 
his companion in the toils of the field, he composed a 
long, which, however extraordinary from one at his 
age, and in his circumstances, is far inferior to any of 
his subsequent performances. He was at this time 
"an ungainly, awkward boy," unacquainted with the 
world, but who occasionally had picked up some no- 
dons of history, literature, and criticism, from the few 
books within his reach . These he informs us, were 
Salmon's and Guthrie's Geegraphical Grammars, the 
Spectator, to;>e's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, 
TuU and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pantheon , Locke's 
Essays on the Human understanding, Stackliouse's 
History of the Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Di- 
rectory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, 
Taylor's Scripture Docf-nae of Original Sin, a select 
CoIlectVon of Eixgiish Songs, and Hervey's MeJita- 

• Th* excellent woman is still liwing in the family of 
few so Jilberi. ( May, 1813.) 



tions. Of this motley assemblage, it may readily b« 

supposed, that some would be studied, and some read 
superficially. There is reason to think, however, tha* 
he perused the works of the poets with such attention 
as, assisted by his natural vigorous capacity, soon di- 
reeled his taste, and enabled him to discrimhaate teu- 
derness and sublimity from affectation and bombast. 

It appears that from the seventeenth to the weiity- 
fourth year of Robert's age, he made no considerable 
literary improvement. His accessions of knowledge, 
or opportunities of reading, could not be frequent, but 
no external circumstances could prevent the innats 
peculiarites of his.character f^om displaying themselves 
lie was distinguished by a vigorous understanding, 
and an uhtauTeable spirit. His resentments were quick 
and, although not durable, expressed with a volubili- 
ty ef indignation which could not but silence and over- 
whelm his humble and illiterate associates ; while the 
occasional effusions of his muse on temporary subjects 
which were handed aboftt in manuscript, raised him 
to a local superiority that seemed the earnest of a 
more extended fame. His first motive to compose ver- 
ses, as has been already noticed, was bis early aun 
warm attachment to the fair sex. His favourites wer2 
in the humblest walks of life ; but during his posses- 
sion, he elevated them to Laurus and Saccharissas. 
His attacfanftents, however, were of the purer kind, 
and his constant theme the happiness of the married 
state ; to obtain a suitable provision for which, he gu- 
gaged in partnership with a flax-dresser, hoping, pro- 
bably, to attain by degiees the rank of a manufactory. 
But this speculation was attended with very little sue. 
cess, and was finally ended by an accidental fire. 

On his father's death he took a fkrm in conjunction 
with his brother, with the honourable view of provi- 
ding for their large and orphan family. But here, too. 
he was doomed to be unfortunate, although, in lis 
brother Gilbert, he had a coadjutor of excellent sense, 
a man of uncommon powers both of thought and.#5- 
pressiou. 

During his residence on this farm he formed a ti^.^^ 
nexien with a young woman, the consequences of whiuj 
could not be long concealed. In this dilemma, the 
imprudent couple agreed to make a legal acknowl- 
edgment of a private marriage, and projected that 
she should remain with her father, while he was to go 
to Jamaica " to push his fortune." This proceeding 
however romantic it may appear, would have rescued 
the lady'« character, according to the laws of Scotland 
but it did not satisfy her father, who insisted on hav- 
ing all the written documents respecting the marriage 
cancelled, and by this unfeeiiiig measure, he intended 
that it should be rendered void. Divorced now from 
all he held dear m the world, he had no resource but 
fn his projected voyage to Jamaica, which waspneven- 
ted ky one of those circumstances that in common 
cases, mightpass without observation., but which eveiy 
vally laid the foundation of his future fame. Pos 
once, his poeefty Bt,ood his fvieud. Had he been fr» 



IV 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



Tided with money to pay for his passage to Jamaica, 
he might have ael sail, and been Ibrgotten. But he 
rfas destitute of every necessary tor the voyage, and 
was therefore advised to raise a sura of money by pub- 
lishing his poems in the way of subscription. They 
were accordingly printed at Kilmarnock, m the year 
1786, in a small volume, which was encouraged by sub- 
geriptions for about 3oU copies. 

It is hardly possible to express with what eager ad- 
miration these poems were every where received. Old 
and young, high and low, learned and ignorant, all were 
al'ke delighted. Such transporis would naturally lind 
their way into the bosom of the author, especially when 
he found that, instead of the necessity of flying from his 
native land, he was now encouraged to go to Edinburgh 
and superintend the publication of a second edition. 

In the metropolis, he was soon introduced into the 
company and received the homage of men of literature, 
raiik and taste and his appearance and behaviour at 
this time, as they exceeded all expectation, heightened 
and kept up the curiosity which his works had excited. 
He became the object of universal admiration, and was 
feasted, and flattered, as if ii. had been impossible to re 
waid his merit too highly. But what conliibuted prin- 
cipally to extend his fame into the sister kingdom, was 
nis fortunate introduction to Mr. Mackenzie, who, in 
Ihe 97th paper of the I .ounger. recommended his poems 
by judicious specimens, and generous and elegant criti- 
cism. From this time, whether present or absent. 
Burns and his genius were the objects wliich engrossed 
all attention and all conversation. 

It cannot be surprising it this new scene of life, pro- 
duced effects on Burns which were the source of much 
oftheunhappiness of his future life for while he was 
admitted into the company of men of taste, and virtue, 
he was also seduced, by pressing invitations into the so 
ciety of those whose habits are too social and inconsid- 
erate. It is to be regretted that he hud little resolution 
to withstand those attentions which flattered his merits 
Budappeared to be the just respect due to a degree of 
superiority, of which he could not avoid being conscious. 
Among his superiors in rank and merit, his behaviour 
was in general decorous and unassuming; but among 
his more equal or inferior associates, he was himself 
the source of the mirth of the evening, and repaid the 
attention and submission of his hearers by saUies ofwit, 
which, from one of his birth and education, had all the 
fascination of wonder. His introduction, about the 
same time, into certain convivial clubs of higher rank, 
was an injudicious mark of resjiect to one who was des- 
tined to return to tlie plough, and to the simple and fru- 
gal enjoyments of a peasant 's life. 

During his residence at Edinburgh, his finances were 
considerably improved by the new edition of his poems ; 
and .his enabled him to visit several other parts of his 
native country. He left Edinburgh, May 6, 1787, and 
in the course ofhisjourney was hospitably received at 
the houses of many gentlemen of worth and learning. 
He afterwards travelled into England as far as Carlisle. 
In the beginning of June he arrived in Ayrshire, after 
an absence of six months, during which lie had expe- 
rienced a change of fortune, to which the hopes of few 
men in his situation could have aspired. His compan- 
ion in some of these lours was a Mr. Nicol, a man 
who wa? endeared to Burns not only by the warmth of 
his friendship, but by a certain coneeniality of- senti- 
ment and agreement in habits. This sympathy, in 
some other instances, made onr poet capriciously fond 
of companions, whoj in the eyes of men of more regular 
conduct, were iusufierable. 

During the greater part of the winter 1787 8. Burn.s 
again resided in Edinburgh, and entered with peculi- 
ar relish into its gayeties. But as the singuhiriiit'^ i 
his manner displayed themselves more openly, and 
as the novelty of his appearance wore off', he became 
less an object of general atlentiun. 'e liimered Ions; 
ill this place, in hopes that eume situation would havt 
been offered which might place him in inf'epenilence; 
but as it did not seem probable thit anv thina nf thivi 
k)'!d would occur soon, he began .seriously to reflect 



that tours of pleasure and praise wo«ld not iiroWrte 
for the wants of a family. Influenced by these consid- 
erations he quitted Edinburgh in themoiitliof Febru 
ary, 1788. Finding himself master of nearly 5O01 
from the sale of his poems, he took the farm of Ellis- 
land, near Dumfries, and stocked it wi'^i ro.rl of thif 
money, besides generously advancii^ lijui.. ij hi« 
brother Gilbert, who was struggling with Difficulties. 
He was now also .?§*Jy united, to Mrs. Burns, who 
joined him with tk-»v *il i^w liout the end of the 
year. 

Q.uitting now speculation for more active pursuits, 
he rebuilt the dwelling house on his farm ; and du- 
ring his engagement in this object, and while the re- 
gulations of the farm had the charm of novehv, he 
passed his time in more tranquillity than he had' late- 
ly experienced. But unfortunatelv, his old habiit 
were rather interrupted than broken. He was again 
invited into social parties, with the additional recoin- 
inendation of a man who had seen the world, and 
liveu with the great ; and again i)artook of those irre- 
gularities for which men of warm imaginations, 
and conversation-talents, find so many aiiologies. 
But a circumstance now occurred wliich threw many 
obsticles in his way as a iWrn>er. 

Burns very fondly cherished those notions of Inde- 
pendence, which are dear to the young.and ingenious. 
Bui he had not matured these by reflection ; and he 
was now to learn, a little knowledge of the world wiil 
overturn many such airy fabrics. If we may form 
any judgment, however, from his corruepondence, 
his expectations were not very extravagant, sii.ce he 
expected only that some of his illustrious patrons 
would have placed him, on whom they bestowed the 
honours of genius, in a situation where his exertions 
might have been uuinterupted by the fatigues of la- 
bour, and the calls of want. Disappoinletl in this, 
he now formed a design of applying for the office of 
exciseman, as a kind of resource in case his exj.eita- 
tions from the farm should be baffled. By the inter- 
est of one ol hu-'-«nHs this object was accomplished; 
and after the usual toiins were gone through, he wa» 
appointed exciseman, or, as it is vulgarly called, gan- 
ger of the district iu wliich he lived. 

" His farm was now abandoned to his servants, 
while he betook himself to the duties of his new ap- 
pointment. He might still, indeed, be seen in the 
spring, directing his plough, a labour in which he ex- 
celled, or striding with measured steps, along his turn- 
ed-up furrows, and scattering the grain in the earth. 
But hi" farm no lunger occupied the principle part ol 
his care or his thoughts. Mounted on horseback, he 
was found pursuing the defaulters of the revenue, 
among the hills and vales of Nithsdale." 

About this time (1792,) he was solicited, to give hie 
aid to Mr. Thomson's Collection of Scottish Songs. 
He wrote, with attention and without delay, for tliit 
work, all the songs which appear in this volume ; to 
which we have added those he crmribuled lo Jolm- 
sou's Alusical Museum. 

Burns also found leisure to form a society for pur- 
chasing and circulating books among the farmers of 
the neighbourhood ; but these, however praiseworthy 
employments, still interrupted the attention he ought 
to have bestowed on his farm, which became so u.i- 
productive that he found it convenient to resign it, 
and, disposing of his slock and crop, removed to a small 
house which he had taken in Dumfries, a short time 
previous to his lyric engagement with Mr. Thomson. 
He had now received from the Board of Excise, 
an ajipointment to a new district, the emoluniente 
of which amounted to about seventy pounds sterling 
per annu7n. 

While at Dumfries, his temptations to irregularity, 
recurred so frequently as nearly to overuewer his re- 
solution, and which he appears to have formed wiih 
a perfect knowledge of \^ai is right and prudent. 
Duriiig his quiet moments, however, he wat euiarg 



OF THE AUTHOR. 



ir^ his fame by those admirable oompositions he 
sent to Mr. Thomson : and his temporary sallies and 
flishes of imagination, in the merriment of the social 
table, still bespoke a genius of wonderful strength and- 
capivaiions. It has been naid, indeed, that extraor- 
dinary as his potms are, they atford but inadequate 
proof of the powers of their author, or of that 
aeuteuess of observation, and expression, he displayed 
on common topics in conversation. In the society of 
persons of taste, he could refrain from those indul- 
gences, which, among his more constant conipan- 
ns, probably formed bis chief reconuneadation. 



The emoluments of his otfice, which now 
sed hiswhole fortune, soon sppeared insufficient for 
the mainifcnaiice of his family. He did not. indeed, 
from ihe llrst, expect that they could ; but he had 
hojies of piomotion and would probably have attain- 
ed it, if he had not forfeited the favour of the Board of 
Excise, by some conversations on the state of public 
atfiii-H, which were deemed highly improper, and 
were probably reported to the Board in a way not 
calculated lo lessen their effect. That he should have 
been deceived by the affairs in France during the 
e;vlv periods of the revolution, is not surprising he 
Dnly caught a portion of an enthusiasm which was then 
Very general ; b'-t il" .e should have raised his ima 
giiiaiion 10 a mu. .in,n beyond his fellows, will appear 
Very singular, when we consider that he had hitherto 
distinguished himself as a Jacobite, an adherent lo the 
house of Stewart. Yet he had uttered opinions 
which were thought dangerous ; and informaiioi: be- 
ing given to the Board, an inquiry was instituted into 
his conduct, tiial result of which, although rather fa- 
vourable, was not »o much as to re-instate him in tiie 
eood opinion of the comissioners. liileresi was ne 
pessary to enable him to retain his office ; and he was 
informed that his promotion was deferred, and must 
depend on his future behaviour. 

He is said to have defended himself, on this occa 
sion, in a letter aifSressed to one of the Board, witli 
much spirit and skill, tie wrote another letter to a 
genileraan, who, hearing that he hal been disi>"iissed 
ironi his situation, proposed a subscription for him. 
In this last, he gives an accourit of the whole transac- 
tion, and endeavours to vindicate his loyalty ; he also 
contends for an independence of spirit, which he cer- 
tainly possessed, but which yet appears to have par- 
taken of that extravagance of sentiment which are fit- 
ter to point a stanza than to conduct a life. 

A passage in this letter is too characteristic to be 
omitted.— -•' Ofte-r:," says our poet, " in blasting an- 
ticipation have 1 listened to some future hackney 
scribler, with heai-y malice of savage stupidity, exnlt- 
lugiy asserting that Burns, notwithstanding the fan- 
faronade of independence to be found in his works, 
and after having been held up to public view, and to 
public estimation, as a man of some genius, yet quite 
destitute of resources within himself to support his 
borrowed dignity, dwuidled into a paltry exciseman ; 
and slunk out the rest of his insigniticant existance, in 
the meanest of pursuits, and among the lowest of 
mankind." 

Tliis passage has no doubt often been read with 
sympathy. That Burns should have embraced the 
only opportunity in his power to provide for his fami- 
ly, can be no topic of censure or ridicule, and noivever 
iiicompaiable with the cultivation of gc^l'ji the busi- 
ness of an exiseman may be, there is nothing of moral 
uirpitude or disgrace attached to it. It was not his 
cli lice, it was the only help within his reach : and he 
laid hsld of it. But that he should not have found a 
patron generous or wise enough to place him in a sit- 
uation at least free from allurements to " the sin that 
so easily beset him ;" is a circumstance on which the 
admirers of Burns have found it painful to dwell. 

Mr. Mackenzie, in the 97th number of the Lounger, 
»fter mentioning tfa» poet's design of going lo the West 
adieu, concludes that paper in «onU to which suffi- 



cient attentioi. appears not to have Xxteu paid ♦' I 
trust means may be found to prevent this resolution 
from taking place; and that I do my country no more 
than justice, when I suppose her ready to stretch out 
the baud to cherish and re ain this native poet, whose 
" wood notes wild" possess so much excellence. To 
repair the wrongs of suffering or neglected merit ; to 
call forth genius from obscurity \n which it had 
pined indignant, and place it where it may profit or da- 
light the world ; — these are exertions which give 
to wealth an enviable superiority, to greatness and to 
patronage a laudable pride. 

Although Burns deprecated the reflections which 
might be made on his occuyjation of exciseman, it mnv 
be necessary to add, that from this humble step, he 
foresaw all the contingencies and gradations of promo- 
tion up to a rank on which it is not usual to look with 
contempt. In a letter dated I7t4, he slates that he i« 
on the list of supervisors ; that in two or three yeart, 
he should be at the head of that list, and be appoim- 
ed, as a matter of course ; but thai then a friend 
might be of service in getting him into a part of the 
kingdom which he would like. A supervisor's income 
varies from about 120Z. to 2U0/. a year : but the busi- 
ness is " an incessant drudgery, and would be near 
ly a complete bar to every species of literary pur- 
suit." lie proceeds, however, to observe, that the 
moment he is apjioinled supervisor he might be nomi- 
nated on the Collector's list, " and this is always a 
business purely of political patronage. A coUuctorship 
varies from much better than two hundrefl a ye.ir lo 
near a thousand. Collectors also come forwai.l by 
precedency on the list, and have besides a handsDine 
income, a life of complete leisure. A life of literarv 
leisure with a decent competence, is the summit of my 
wishes." 

fie was doomed, however, to continue in his present 
employment for the remainder of his days, which 
were not many. His constiiution was now rapitVy 
decaying ; yet, his resolutions of ameiiilmenl werg 
but feeble. His temper became irritable and ghiomy, 
and he was even insensible to the kind forgiveness ant' 
soothing attentions of his atfectioiiate wife. In ihe 
month of June. 179S, he removed to Brow, about ten 
miles from Dumfries, to try the effer'. ut sea hathing ; 
a remedy that at first, he imag^lned, relieved the rheu- 
matic pains in his limbs. A'ith which he had been af- 
flicted for some months : but this was inirnediately 
followed by a new attack of fever. When brought 
back to his house at Dumfries, on the 18th ol July, he 
was no longer able to stand upright. The fever in- 
creased, attended with delirium and debility, and on 
the 21st he expired, in the thirty-eighth year of his 
age. 

He left a widow and four sons, for whom the inhab- 
itants of Dumfries opened a subscription, which being 
extended to England, produced a considerahle sum 
for their immediate necessities.* This has since been 
augmented by the profits of the eiUtion ol tiis works, 
printed in four volumes, 8vo ; to which T)r Ciirrie of 
Liverpool, prefixed a life, written with much elegance 
and taste. 

As to the person of our poet, he is described as being 
nearly five feet ten inches hi height, and of a form that 
indicated agility as well as strength. His well-raisat" 
forehead, shaded with black curling hair, expressed 
uncommon capacity. His eyes were large, dark, full 
of ardour and aniniation. His face was well formed, 
and his countenance uncommonly interesting. His 
conversation is universally allowed to have been un- 



* Mrs. Burns continues to '.ive in the house in which 
the ^ oet died ; the eldest son, Robert, is at present in 
the Stamp Office : the otl^pr two are officers in the 
East India company's armv, William is in Bengal, 
and James in Madrass, (May, 1813.,) Wallace, the 
second son, a lad of great promise died of a cousulm*- 
tion. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 



commonly fasclnatin?, nnd rich in wit, humonr, wtem, 
aii'l occasionally in serious and apposite reflection. 
This excellence, however proved a lasting misfortune 
to him ; for while it procured him the friendship ff 
men of characterand taste, in whose company his ha 
mo'ir was guarded and chaste, it had also ailurcmenU 
for *J» lowest of maniand, who kuow no difference be- 



tween freedom and licentiousness, and are never so 
completely gratified as when genius condescends '.o 
give a kind of sanction to their grossness. He died 
roor, but cot in debt , and left behind him a name, tiie 
tome of which will nui rK>n ke ectipMd. 



ON 



THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



BY MR. ROSCOE, 



REAR high thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
Ami, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with- blossoms red ; 
But, ah I what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard. is dead 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain ? 

Ai ^reen thy towering pines may grow, 

As clear thy streams may speed along ; 
As bright thy summer suns may glow, 

Ami waite again thy feathery throng ; 
But now, unheeded is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all atround, 
For his wild harp lies all unsti'ung, 

And cold tne hand that wak'd its sound 

What tho' thy vigorous otTspring rise 

In arts and arms thy sons excell ; 
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes, 

And health in every feature dwell ; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell. 

In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, 
Since he no more the Song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee ! 

With step-dame eye and frown severe 

His hap'ess youth why didst thou view/ 
For all thy joys to him were dear, 

And all his vows to thee were due: 
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, 

In opening youth's delightful prime, 
Than when thy favouring ear he drew 

To listen to his chanted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

To him were all with rapture fraught; 
He heard with joy the tempests nse 

That wak'd Mm to suhlimer thought]; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought. 

Where wild flowers pour'd their ratk perfume. 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summer's earliest bloonu 

Buij ah I no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected youth enjoy'd ; 
His limbs inur'd to early toil, 

His days with early hardships tried t 
And more to mark the gloomy void, 

And bid hint feel bis misery, 



Before his infant eyes would glido 
Day-dreams of inunortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, 

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil. 
Sunk with the evening sun to rest. 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Wak'd by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 

The powers of fancy caine along. 
And soothed his lengthen'd hour of toll 

With native wit and sprightly song. 

— Ah I days of bliss, too swiftly fled, 

When vigorous health from labour sprim*. 
And bland contentment smooths the bed, 

And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire. 
That of unu.terable things 
The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 

Now spells of mightier power prepare. 

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance i 
Let flattery sjiread her viewless snare. 

And fame attract his vagrant glance: 
Let sprightly pleasure too advance, 

Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her lone. 
Till lost in love's delirious trance 

He scorns the-joys his youth has known. 

Let friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
And mirth concentre all her rays, 

And point them from the sparkling bowl | 
And let the careless moments roll 

In social pleasures jnconfin'd, ' 
And confldence that spurns control. 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind. 

And lead his steps those bowers amon;. 

Where elegance with splendour vies. 
Or science bids her favour'd throng 

To more refin'd sensations rise ; 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys. 

And freed from each laborious strife. 
There let him leam the bliss to prize 

That waits the sous of solish'd life. 

Then whilst his throbbing veins beat h' 
I With every Impulse ef delight, 



Tin 

Ua»h from hl» Hp» the ch|/ of Joy, 

A nd shroud the tcene in shades ofDisht ; 

And let despair, vrllh wizard light, 
Disclose the yawing gult" below, 

And pour incessant on his sight, 

Her »pectred ilU and shapes of wo t 

And show beneath a cheerless shed. 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eTM^ 
lo silent grief where droops her head, 

The partner of his early joys ; 
AnJ let his infant's tender cries 

His tond parental succour claim, 
Ami bid him hear is agonies 

A husband aud a father's nam*. 

■Tis done— the oavrtul cnai m succe^la , 
Uia hi(ii relwe\wit sumt ocaos : 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS 



In bitterness of sn\il he bleed*. 

Nor longer with his fate cnntemb. 

An idiot laugh the welkin rends 
As genius thus degraileri lies ; 

Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 
That shrouds the Poet's ardent eye*. 

— Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills, 

Thy sheli»r'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills. 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ( 
But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland raitn. 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath'd Uie southing « 



PHEFACE 

TO THE 

FIRST EDITIOJyr 

* OP 

BURNS* POEMS, 

PUBLISHED AT KILMARNOCK IN 1786. 



The following tn'fles are not the prodnctiofj of the 
poei, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and, 

f)er naps amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper 
ife, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to 
Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of tliis, these and 
other celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at 
least in their orij-inal language, a fountain shut up, 
and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessa- 
ry requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings the 
Sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself 
«.nd his rustic compeers arouiid him, in his and their 
natire language. Though a rhymer from his earliest 
years, at least from the earliest impulses of the softer 
passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, 
perhaps the partiality, of triendship, awakened his 
Tanity so far as to make him think anything of his worth 
ihuwkig ; and none of the following works were com 
posed with a viev to the press. To amuse himself 
with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the 
lolls and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe the 
various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the 
fears, in his own breast : to find some kind of counter- 
poise to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, 
a lask uncouth to the poetical mind— these were his 
motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found 
poetry to be its own reward. 

Now that he appears in the public character of an 
author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear 
is fame to the rhymmg tribe, that even he, an obscure, 
nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being 
branded as — An impertinent blockhead, obtruding his 
nonsense on the -world ; and, because he can make a 
ihifi to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, 
loiking upon himself as a poet of no small coose- 
queace, forkooth ! 



It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Sh«n. 
stone, whose divine elegies do honour to our lan- 
guage, our nation, and our species, that " Hurni/i' 
ty has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but nev 
er raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at the 
word genius, the author tells him once for all, that he 
certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some i>oet- 
ic abilities, otherwise his publishing in the manner ht 
has done, would be a manoeuvre below the worst 
character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will evpr 
give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glo- 
rious dawnings of tbe poor Unfortunate Fergusson, he, 
with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that even in 
his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most dis- 
tant pretensions. These two justly admired Scotch 
poets he has often had in his eye in the following pie- 
ces ; but rather with a view to kindle at theii flame 
than for servile imitation. 



To his Subscribers, the author returns his most sin- 
cere thanks. Not the mercenary bow over a counter, 
but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the ban!, con- 
scious how much he owes to benevolence and friend- 
ship, for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dear- 
est wish of every poetic bosom— to be distinguished. 
He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the 
polite who may honour him with a perusal, that they 
will make every allowance for education and circum- 
stances of life ; but if, after a fair, candid, and impar- 
tial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and 
nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case 
do by others — let him be condemned, Without mercy 
to contempt and oblivion. 



DEDICATION 

OF THE 

SECOND EDITION 

OP THE 

FOEMS FORMSRLV PRINTED. 

TO THE 

J^OBLEMEK AJVD GEJVTLEMEjX 

OF THE 

CAZiCDOmAN HUNT. 



My fjords and Gentlemen, 
A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose high- 
est ambtion ib to sing in his Country's service — where 
shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illus- 
trious names of his native Laud ; those who bear the 
honours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors ? The 
Poetic, Genius of my Country found me, as the pro- 
phetic bard Klijahdid Elisha— at the plough; and 
threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing 
the loves, the iovs, the rural scenes and rural pleasures 
of my native soil, in my native tongue : I tuned my wild 
art.ess notes, as she inspire(<— tShe wl.ispered me to 
come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay 
aiT Songs under your honoured protection.; I now obey 
her dictates. 

Though much indebted to vour goodness, I do not ap- 
proach you, my Tjords and Gentlemen, in the usual 
style of dedication, to thank you for past favours ; that 
path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that honest 
rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Ad- 
dress with the venal soul of a servile Author, looking 
for a continuation of those favours; I was bred to the 
Plough, and am independent. I comg to claim the com- 
mon Scottish name with you, my illustrious Country- 
men ; and to tell the world that I glory in the title. I 
come to congratulate my Country, that the blood of 



her ancient heroes s'iU runs anccntaminated ; and ftwC 
from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, sha 
may expect protection, wealth and liberry. In the Inst 
place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes totha 
Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Uni- 
verse, for your welfare and happiness. 

When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in the an- 
cient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, 
may Pleasure ever be of your party; and may Social- 
Joy await your return : When harrassed in courts or 
camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, 
may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend 
your return to your native Seats ; and may domestic 
Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your 
gates ! May corruption shrink at your kindling indig> 
nant glance ; and may tyrrany in the Ruler, and licen- 
tiousness in the People, equally find you an inexorabl* 
foe 

I have the nonour to be. 
With the ilacerest gratitude, 
and hig(»9«t respect. 
My L,;-d« and Gentlemen* 
four most de 'idhumble servant, 

ROBERT BURN» 

Edinburgh, 
April 4, 1787 



POEMS, 

CHIEFL7 SCOTTISH. 



THE TWA D0GS.-4 Tale. 



'TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
Tfaatbean the name o' AuLd King Coil, 
(Jponabonnie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgalher'd anceupon a time. 

The first I'll name, ihey ca'd him CcBsar, 
Was keepitfor his Honour's pleasure ; 
His hair, bis size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Sbow'dhewas naneo' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for Cod. 

Hia locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
Tliefient a pride, na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler -gypsey's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae buddie, 
But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him, 
And siroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's coUia, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving hillie, 
ATia fcrhis friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang, * 
WaB made lang syne— L^ord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke. 

As every lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 

Hii gawcietail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swurh 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ith&r, 
An' unco pack an' thich thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles suuff 'd and snowkit, 
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whylea scour'd awa' in lang excursion, 
An' worry' 1 ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' daffin weary grown. 
Upon a knowe thye sat them down, 

* Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. 



And there began a lang digresrioa 
About the lords o' the creation, 

CJESAR. 

I'veaften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you haT«. 
An 'when the gentry's life I saw 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents. 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents, 
He rises when he likes himself ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
Heca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the Steele* 
The yallow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'enAt's nought but toiling 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechim. 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, andsiclike trashtrie. 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner. 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their paincb ia, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Csesar, whyles they'ie fash't eaeugh } 
A cottar howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi'dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like. 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
Asmytrie o' wee dubbie weans, 
An' nought but his ban' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters. 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer. 
An' they maun starveo' cauld an' hungi r ; 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 



12 



BURN'S POMES. 



An' iMiirtJiy chiels, an' clever hlMie», 
Ai-tt bred ia sic a way as this ia. 

CjESAR. 

But then to see how ye're neg'eckit, 
How hufTd, and cutTd, and disresijetldt ! 
1. — (I, rran, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle ; 
They gang as sauoy by poor (o'k, 
As 1 wad by a stinkiug brock. 

I've noiic'd on our Laird's court-day, 
An' monyatime my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies scant o'cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apiirehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun, staun', wi' aspect humble. 
An' bear it a", an' fear an' tremble. 

I see hew folk live than hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ? 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's atie wad think } 
Tho'constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accusiom'd wi, the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
An'tho' fatigued wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rests's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives. 
Their grushie weans an' failhfu' wives ; 
The prating things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can Tiftk the budies uncoha|)py ; 
They lay aside their private cares. 
To mend the Kirk and Slate affairs : 
They'll talk o'pairoiiage and priests, 
Wi' kii.dlnig fury in their breasts, 
Oi- tell what new taxation's comin, 
An' ferlie at the folk in London, 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
rticv get the jovial, ranting kirns, 

Wnen ru;a/ life, o' ev'ry station. 

Unite' ill common recreation ; 

Love hliiiks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 

Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' slieds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luulin pipe, an' seeshin mill. 

Are handed round wi' richt guide will ; 
The canlie auld folks crackin crouse, 

The young anes rantin thro, the housB,— . 

My neart has been sae fain to see them. 

Thai I for joy has barlsii wi' tbem. 



Still it's owre true that ye hae said. 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock, 
O' decent, honest, fawsonl fo'k. 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to qtiencb, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha, aiblins, thranga-parUmentiii, 
For Britain's guide his saul iudentin— 

C^SAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 
Por Britain's guidj guid faith ! I doubt Ik 
Say rather, gaiui as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying ay. or no's they bid him, 
At operas an' plays parading. 
Mortgaging gambling masquerading ; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft. 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft. 
So make a tour, an' take a whirl. 
To learn bon ton, an' see the Wftrl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versaillet 
He rives his father's auld entails; 
Or by Madrid he takes the rout, 
Te thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian ^sta startles, 
Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtlei 
Then bouses drumly German water. 
To make himselt look fair and fatter, 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of Caruivailsignoras. 
For Britain's guid ! for her dislruction I 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech man ! dear Sirs ! is that the gaw 
They waste sae mony a braw estate I 
Are we sae foughten au' harass'd 
For gear to gang the gale at last I 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels wi' kiutra sports, 
It wad lor ev 'ry aue be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter I 
For tnae frank, raulin, ramblin billies, 
Fienthaet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; 
Except for breakiii o' their timmer, 
Orspeakin lightly o' their iiminer. 
Or shootin o' a hare or moor cock. 
The ne'er abit they 're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Ceesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure * 
Nae cauld nor hungere-er can steer theoi. 
The vera thought o't need na fear them. 

CjGSAR 

L — d, man, were ye but whyles whare I •■ 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true they need na strave or sweat. 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heal ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes. 
An' fill auJd age wi' gripes au' sranes : 



BURNS' POEMS. 



1? 



But h>)iaan bodies are tie foolt, 
Kor a iheir colleges and scliuuls, 
That when iia,i real Ills perplex them, 
They make enow themselves to vex them ; 
Au' */ the less they hae to stun then», 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 
A coumry t'eliow at the pleugh, 
Hii acres lill'd, he's right eueugh ; 
A tciulra lassie at her wheel, 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel : 
i3ut Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' er'ndown want o'wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy : 
riio' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days, insipid, dull, an ' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless ; 
An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races. 
Their gallo|)ing thro' public places. 
There's sic parade, sic jiomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches. 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, 
Niesl day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whylcs o'er the wee bit cup an' plaXie, 
They sip the scandal portion pretty ; 
Or Ue-lan|! nights, wi' crabbit leuks 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stalr« on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman j 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was ont o' sight, 
An' darker gloaming brought the night I 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they w ere na men but dogs ; 
An' each took afl his several way, 
BeiolT'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK 

Gie him stron? drink, until he wink, 

That's sinkrnsin despair ; 
An' liquor giiid to fire his bluid, 

That's press'd wi' grief an' care ; 
There let him bouse, an' deep c'wae, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er. 
Till he forgets his loves or debts. 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon^a Proverbs xxx, 6, 7. 



TiET other tiORts raise a fracas 
'Bout Tines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, 
Aa erabbit names an' stories wrack ns. 

An' gi-ate our lug. 



I ting the juice Scots betr can.make im, 

In glass or jug. 

O ihou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink'. 
Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink. 

In glorious taem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name I 

Let husky Wheat the laughs adorr. 
An' Aits set up their awnie horn, 
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn, 

1 urfurae the plain, 
Leezeme on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king ->' grain 1 

On thee af*. Scotland chows her cood. 
In scouple S' ones, the wale o' food 1 
Or tumbliniu the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef ; 
But when thou pours thy sirong heart's blood. 
There thou shines chiet 

Food fills the waine, an' keeps usliviu ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin, 

But, oil'dby thee. 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, 

Wi' rattlinglee. 
Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' droopin Cat ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil, 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy siller weed, 
W'' Gentles thou erects thy head j 
Yethumbly kind in time o' need. 

The jjoor man's win* ■ 
His wee drap patritch, or liis bread, 

Thou kitchens line. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 
Ev'n godly metings o' the sainits. 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents. 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in 1 
Or reekin on a New-inorning year 

In cog or bicker, 
An'justa weedrapsp'ritual burn in, 

An' gusty sucker! 

When "Vulcan gies his bellows breath 
An' ploughmen gather wi' ilieir gi-ailh 
O rare ! to see thee fizz an lieath 

I' ih' luggit c^ 
Then Bumewin'' comes on like dea*' 



* Bumewin — bum-the-wind the BlackimUn — at 
propriat* title. E. 



u 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Nae mercy, then, for aim or rteel ; 
The brawnle, baiuie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owreliip, wi' sturdy wheel. 
The strong for eh 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin weanies see the light. 
Thou makes the gossips clatter bright. 
How furablin duifa their dearies sliglit ; 

Wae worth the naire I 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud cau be. 
How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel t 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee 

To taste the baiTel. 

Aiate I that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 
But inouie daily weet tJieir weason 

Wi' liquors nice. 
An' hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy burningtrash ! 
Pell source o' monie a pain an'brash 
Twins moaie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 

0' half his days 
An' sends' besides' auld Scotland's cash 

Toher warst faes. 

S e Scots, wha wish auld Scoland well I 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless deevils like mysel ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu'wines tomell, 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

0' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' wkisky punch. 

W' honest men. 

O^'Tiisky! saul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's liumble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses I 
Thou comes — they rattled i' their ranks 

At ither's a — s I 

Three, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! 
Scotland, lament frae ceast to coast ! 
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast 

May kill us a' ; 
For royal Forbes' charter'd boast 

Is la'enawa! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' the Excise, 
Wha mak the ^Vtiishj Stells their prize I 
Haudupthy h?Ji', Deil ! ance, twice, tb'ice! 

There, seize the bunkers I 



And bake them up in brunstace pies 

For poor d — u'd drinken. 

Fortune ! if thou '11 but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, and Whisky gill, 
An' rowtho' rhyme to rave at will, 

Taka'therest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee oest. 



THE AUTHOR'S 

EJRJ^EST CRY AJ^D PRAYER 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES, 

IN THE 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 



Dearest of Destination ! last and best 

How art thou lost 1 

Parody on Miltoik 



Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, 
Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 
An' doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse. 
Your honors' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, 
To see her sittin on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
An' scriechin out prosaic vese, 

An' like tobrustt 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great aiHiclion, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction, 

On Aquavilce ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, _ 

An' move their-pity. w 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Pre7iUer YoutA, 
The hiinest, open, naked truih : 
Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth. 

His servants humlje! 
The mnckle deevil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom? 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb I 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em : 
If honestly they cana come, 

Far better want e'm. 

* This was wriUen before th? act anent the Scotch 
Distilleries, ofslssion 1786; for which Scotland and 
the Author return their most grateful thanks. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



15 



In gs.th Mug votes you were na slack ; 
Kow stAiid as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er ciaw your lug, au' fitlge your back, 

An' human' haw; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland gi-eeting owre her thrissle ; 
Her rautchkin stoup as loom's a whissle : 
Au' d — ma'd Excisemen in a bussle, 

Seizin a Stell, 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel 

Orlampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard Sraugler right behint her. 
An' chtek-tbr-chow, a chuffie Vintner, 

Colleaguiagjoin, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of T.' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bhiiil rising hot. 
To see his poor auld Miiher's pot 

Til us dung in staves, 
An' plunder 'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas 1 I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire clean out o' sight ; 
But could i like Montgom'ries fight. 

Or gab like Boswell 
There's gome sark-necks 1 wad draw tight, 

An- tie some hose well. 

God Bless your Honors, can ye see't 
The kmd, auld, cantie Carlia greet, 
An' no get wai-mly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriotic heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period, an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric ciaus^on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrang. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot, ^'se warran ; 
Thee aith-delesting, chaste Kilkerran;* 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Laird o' Graham,'^ 
An' ane, a chap that's d — mn'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 

Brskine, aspunkie Norland billie ; 
Tri Camvbeils. Frederick 3.n^ Ilay ; 
Ac Limngstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; 

An' monie ithers 
V m auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

rouse, my boys ! exert your mettle 

• Sir Adam Ferguson. E. 

t The present Duke of Montrose. (1800.) : 



To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith 1 I'll wad my new ;)leugli-pettle, 

Ye'Usee'l, or laug, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reckiu whittle, 

Anither saEg. 

This while she's been in crankous mood. 
Her lost Militia fired her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie I) 
An' now she like to rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An' L — d, if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. 
All' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I'lh' first she meets! 

For G — d sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' slraik her cannie wi' the hair. 
An' to the mukle house repair, 

Wi' instant speedt 
An' strive wi' a' your Wit and Lear, 

To get re mead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie ; 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock'a 
I'll be his debt twa mushlam bounocks, 
An' driiik his health in auld Nanse Tijtnock' 

Nine times a-week, 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnock's 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my ailh in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition. 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch. 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 

Tho' by the neck she should be strung. 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen i^'tuf-rend-i^orty. 
May still your Mither's heart support ye ; 
Then, though a Minister grow dony, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'Usnap youi fingers, poor au' hearty. 
Before his face. 

God bless your Honours a' your days, 

Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, 

* A worthy old Hostess of theAuthor's in Mmichlint. 
where he sometimes studied Politics over a glass of 
guid auld Scotch. Drink. 



16 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Id ipite 'o a' the thieTish kaea, 

Thai haunt St. Jamie't 
Yourhiimble Poeigingsan' prays 

While ItaJ) hia name U. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skiei 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blythe and frisky, 
She eyes her freebom martial boys, 

Takaff their Whisky. 

, What tho' their Fhebus kinder' wartni, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ; 
When wretches rage, in famisli'd swarms, 

The scented gi-oves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms ' 

In hungry droves. 

Their gim's a burden on their shouther 
They downa bide ihestinK o'powiher ; 
Their bauldest thoughts' a harikr'ingswither 

To Stan' or nn, 
Tillskelp — a shot— they're aff, a' ilirowther. 
To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap in his check a Highland gill. 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him : 

An* when he fa's, 
Hi* latest draught o' breath he sees him 
In' faint huzzas, 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
Au' raise a philosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek. 

In clime and season ; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the I 



Scotland, my auld, respected Mitherl 
Tho' whiles ye moislify your leather. 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather. 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and Wkish/ ga.iig thegiiher! 

Tak aff your dram. 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 
Hid crafty observation ; 

• Ho/y i^rtir is a common phrase in the West of Scot- 
land tor a Sacramental occasion. 



And secret hunp. with pn'"oi>'{? cm 
The dirk of Defamation : 

A mask that like the gorget show'd, 
Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 

And lor a mantle larpc and hrotuil. 
He wrapt him ui U'Mzion. 
Hypocrisy 



I. 



UPON a simmer Sunday mom. 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the caller air. 
The rising sun owre Gahton mrlr*, 

Wi' glorious light was gliii'in : 
The hares werehirjjlin down the furs, 

Thelav'ncks they were chantin 

Pu' sweet that day 

IL 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene sae gay. 
Three Hizzies, early at the road. 

Cam skelpin up the way ; 
Twa had mantceles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining; 
The tliird, that gaed a wee a-back. 

Was in the fashion shining 

Fu' gay that day. 

III. 

The twa appear'^ like sisters twin. 

In feature, form, an' claes I 
Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes : 
The Mird cam up, hap-step-an'-lowf, 

As light as ony lambie, 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop. 

As soon as e're she saw m^, 

Fu' kind that day, 

IV. 

Wi' bannetaff, quoth I, " Sweet la»«, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face. 

But yet I canna name ye." 
GLuo' she, an' laughin as she spak, 

An' tak& me by the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, hae, gi'en tne feck 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 



" My name is Fun — your cronie near. 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An' this is Sitperstition here. 
An' that's Hipocrisy. 

I'm gaun to * ' Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in dafiio ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



17 



<iiii ye'll go Oiere, yon ruukl'U pair 
VVu will gel iaiiiuus laughin 

Allliemiliistlay." 

VI. 

ftuolh I, " With a' my heait, I'll do't : 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on 
An' meetyuu on the holy spot 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin 1" 
Then 1 gaed hame at crowdie-time 

An' soon 1 made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

VVi' monie a wearie body, 

In droves that day. 

VI J. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, 

uaed hoddin by their cotters ; 
There, swaukies young, in braw braid-claith, 

Are sphugiu o're the gutleis. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' BWiet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

Aa'/arls bak'd wi' butler 

Fu' criimpthat day. 

VIII. 

When by theplate we set our uose, 

Weel heaped iipwi' ha'pence 
A greedy giowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we mauu draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show. 

On ev'ry side they're gathrin. 
Some carrying <lales, some chairs an' stoolc. 

An' some are busy blethriii 

Right loud that day. 

IX. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our kintra <}entry, 
There, racer Jess, an iwa-lhree wh-res, 

Are B.inkni at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of littlin jades, 

Wi' lieavin? breast and bare neck 
An' there a hatcli of wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae K ck 

For /un this day. 



Here some are thinkin on their sins, 

An' some upo' their daes ; 
Ane c'lrses feef. thai fyl'd his shins, 

An'lhe' iia'.is an' prays: 
On thisnand sits a chnsr.n swatch, 

W i' screw'ri up srace proud faces ; 
On that a setu' chaps at waich, 

Tiire ng w'nkin on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

XI. 

e happy is that man an' blest! 
Nae woudat thai it pritls him ! 



'Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, 
Comes cliukin down beside him ■ 

Wi' arm reposed on the chair back. 
He sweetly does compose him ! 

Whicli, oy degrees, slips round her nesk, 
An's loot' upon her bosom 

Uukeu'd that day. 

XII. 

Now a' the congregation o'er, 

Is silent expectation ; 
For****** speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t--n. 
Should Uomie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' G — present him, 
Theverasigh o' ■****'sface, 
To's ain hel haiue had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

XIII. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith, 

Wi' ratlui an' wi' ihumpin' 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin an' he's jumpin 1 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn 'd up snout. 

His eldnich squeil and gestures, 
Oh how they fire the heart devout. 

Like cautharidian plasters, 

On sic a day I 

XIV. 

But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice { 

There's peace an' rest nae lauger ; 
For a' Ihe real judges r'lsn. 

They canna sit for anger. 
*****' opens out his cauld harangues. 

On practice and on morals ; 
An' adlhe godly pour in thrangs, 

To g'ie toe jars an barrels 

A lift that day. 

XV. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His Knglish style, an' gesture &tit. 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like 6'ocrares or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heatiiea, 
The moral man lie dues define, 

But ne're a word o' faith in 

Thats right Uhat day, 

XVI. 

lu guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic pnison'd nostrum ; 
For •*'*•**, fiae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' G — , 

An' meek an' mim has view'd it, 
While Common-Sense has ta'eu the road. 

Ail' aff, an' up ihe Cowgate,* 

Fast, fast, that day. 

• A street so caikd, wbick faces the Lent \i 



BURNS' PdEMS. 



xvn. 

Wee «*•*««, uiest, tlie Guard relieves, 

All' Othodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in liis heart he vveei believes, 

An' thinks it aald wives' fables : 
But tailh ! the birJiie wants aMause, 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' iiis carnal wit an' sense 

luike hatflius-ways o'ercomes 'ain» 
At times that day. 

XVIII. 

Now butt an' b«n, the Change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup Commentators ; 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

An' there the pint slowp clatters ; 
While thick an' tbrang, an' loud.an' lang, 

Wi' Logic an' wi' icrijjture, 
They raise a din, iiiat in the end, 

is like to breed a rupture 

O wrath that day. 

XIX. 

Leeze me on Drink ! it gies us mair 

Then either School or College : 
It kindles wit, it Wakens lair, 

It bangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be'twisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our uotion 

By night or day. 

XX. 

The lads an' lasses blythely bent 

To miiid'baith saul an' body. 
Sit round the table weel content. 

An' steer about the toddy. 
©n this ane's dress, an' that aiie's leuk, 

They'iemakuig observations; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk. 

An' I'ormin assignations. 

To meet some day. 

XXI. 

But DOW the L — d's ain trumpet tonta. 

Till a' the hills are rairin, 
An' echoes back return the shouts ; 

Black *«••** is ua sparin. 
His pierceing words, like Highland sworda. 

Divide the joints an' marrow ; 
His talk o' H-Il, where devils dwell. 

Our vera sauls dose harrow ' 

Wi' fright that day. 

XXII. 

Avast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'dfou o' lowin brunstane, 
Whase ragin flame, an' scorchir beat. 

Wad melt the hardest whum-stane I 

* Shakespeare's Hasilel. 



The half aslitep start up -reV ;"eai. 

An' think lliey hear it roariu, 
When presently it does ajjpear, 

'Twas but some neebor suurin 

Asleep that aay. 

XXIII. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell 

How monie stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill 

When they were a' dismist ; 
How drink gaed round, in cugs an'caupa, 

Amang the farms an' benches ; 
An' cheese an' bread frae women's laps. 

Was dealt ab»ut in lunches. 

An' daubs that daj 

XXIV. 

In comes a gaucie gash G uidwife, 

An' sits down by the lire. 
Syne draws herkebbuck an' he^ knife. 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The Auld Guidmen aljout the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother. 
Till some ane by his boiniei lays. 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' laiig Uial day 

XXV. 

Waesucks ! for him that gets naes lasa, 

Or lasses that hae naelhing I 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melviehis braw claitlnng 1 
O wives, be miudiu', ance yoursel. 

How bcnnie lads ye wanted, 
Au' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lapses be affronted 

On SIC a day I 

XXVI. 

Now Clinhumbell, wi' rattlin tow. 

Begins to jow ao'croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they «icii;, 

Some wait the aflenoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon ; 
Wi' faith an' hope an' love an' drink. 

They're a' in famous tune, 

For crack tlia; daj 

XXVII. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' iassea ! 
Their hearts o' staue, gin night are gan«. 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' monie jobs il-.ai day begin. 

May end in Houghmangandie 

Some itber doy. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



19 



DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

SOME books are lies frae end to end, 
AND some great lies were never penii'd, 
Kv'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd 

In holy rapture, 
4. rousing whid, at time to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell. 
Which laiely on a night betel, 
Isjustaslrue'slheDeirs in h-U 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a muckle pity 

"he Clachan yill had made me canty, 
1 was ua tou, but just and plenty ; 
Istacher'dwhyles, butyel took tent ay 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, atanes, an' bushes kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

The rising moon began to glov/'r 
The distant Cwrmock hills out-owre : 
To count her bunu, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I sent mysel ; 
But wheintr she had three or four, 

Icou'd natell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
Anil toddlin down on H'illie^ mill. 
Setting my siatf wi'a' iry skill, 

To keep me sicker I 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 
I took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather. 

That put me in eerie swither ; 

An awfu' sithe, out-owre ae sliowther, ' 

Clear-dangliug, hang ; 
A three-tae'd leister on the ither 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its staiare Beem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape itial e'er 1 saw, 
For fient a wane it hail ava ! 

And then, its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 



Friend I hae ye been 



" Guid-een, " quo' I 

mawin. 
When ither folk are busy sawin ?' * 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' sian 

But naelhing spak ; 
At length, says 1, *• Friend, whare ye gaun. 
Will ye go back-"'* 

It spaReiighthowe,— "My nameis Death, 
But be na fley'd."— Cluoth I, " Girid faith, 
Ye're may be come to stap my breath ; 
But tent me, billie s 

• This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785, 



I red ye weel, talc care o' skaith. 

See, there's a gu'.ly I" 

" Guidman," quo' he, " put up your whittle, 
I'm nodesign'd to try its mettle; 
But if 1 did, 1 wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle | 

Out-owre my beard. 

" Weel, weel I" says I, "a bargain be't; 
Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree'i; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat. 

Come, gics your newi 
This while* ye hae been monie a gate 

At mouie a house." 

" Ay, ay !" quo' he, an' shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread. 

An' choke the breath t 
Folk maun do something for their bread. 

An' sae maun Death, 

" Sax thousand years are near hand fled 

Sin' I was to the hutching bred. 

An' monie a scheme in vam's been laid, 

To siap or scar me : 
Till aneHomoook^s t ta'em up the trade, 

An' faith, he'liwaur me 

" Ye hea Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 
Dei\mait his king's hood in a spleiichan ! 
He's grown sae well acquaiii' wi' Buchan X 

Aa' ither chaps. 
That weans haud out their fingers laughin 

And pouk my hips. 

" See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart ; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art. 

And cursed skill. 
Has made thembaith not worth a f— t, 

Damn'd haet Uiey'lt kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, nae fai-ther gaen, 

I tiirew a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've Hundreds slain ; 

But deil-ma-care, 
If. just pley'd dirl on the bane. 

But did nae mair.- 

" Hornbook, was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortify 'd the part. 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 
Of a kail-runt. 

* An epidemical fever was then raging in that 
country. 

t This gentleman, i)r. /fo77!6ooi,iBprofe8sioiiaUy, 
a brother of the Sovereign Order of Feruk but, k>j 
intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apolhsrvf 
Surgeon, and thysician. 

X Buchan's Domestic Medicine. 



20 



BURNS' POEMS. 



" I drew my siihe In tie a fury, 
I iieHrliaml cowijit wi' my hurry 
Uul yei Itie bauld Apothecary 

Wuhsiuoil the shock; 
I mighc as weel hae try'il a quu.ri-y 

O' h»ra wliiurock. 

" Ev'n them he caiiiia get alleiided, 
Alto' Uieir lace he ne'er hail kea<l il, 

Juil ill a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon lie smells't, 
Bailh their disease, and what will mend it 
At once he lells't. 

" And then a' doctors' saws and whittles, 
Ota' diiiieiisions, sliapes, an' iiieliies, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' boliles, 

He's sure fi hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rallies 

As A B C. 

" Calces o' fossil?, earth, and trees; 
True Salmarinum u' the seas ; 
The Farina ol' beans and pease, 

he has'l in plenty; 
Aqna-fonlis, what you please 

He cau content ye. 

" Porbye some new uncommon weapons, 
Urinus Spirilua of capons ; 
Or Mile-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 
Dis'.iW'dper se; 
Sal-aikali o' Midge-tail clippings. 

And monie mae." 

"Waes me for Johnny G&Vt Hole' now," 
Q.uu' I, " if that the news be true ! 
Hifcbraw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae while and boanie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 

They'll ruin yoAme/" 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
Ar.d says, " Ve need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirkyarils will soon be lill'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear: 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh 

lu iwa-three year. 

' Whare I kill'd ane a fair straedeath. 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath, 
Tliis night I'm free to tak my aith. 

That Hornbook'i skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap an' pill. 

" An honest Wabster to his trad>, 
Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce wee bred. 
Gat lippeuce-worlh to mend her head. 
When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed. 

But ne'er spak mair. 

*Tfae srara-diggar. 



" A kintra Laird had ta'en the batu. 
Or some curmurriiig in his guts. 
His only son for Hornlmok sets, 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, 

Was laird himsel. 

" A boiinie lass, ye kend her name. 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wamef 

Slie trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

!n Hornbook' s care ; 
flbm sent her affto her lang hame. 

To hide it there. 

•' Thai's just a swatch o* Hornbook's way; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill an' slay. 

All's weel ])aid for't; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 



Wi' his d- 



•ddirti 



" But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be sijeakiiig o'l ; 
I'll nail the self conceited Scot, 

As dead's aherrinj 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat. 

He gets his fairin !" 

But just as he began to tell. 

The auUl kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Whichrais'i'usbaithj 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel 

And sae did Death. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR, 



INSCRIBEDTO J. B' 



, ESQ.. AYR. 



THE simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 

Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bu»li; 

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill. 

Or deep-ton'd, plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er Ui« 

hill; 
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly iheU, 
To hardy Independence bravely bred, 
By early poverty to hardship steel'd, 
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's fieia. 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile mercenary Swiss of rhymes { 
Or labour hard the panegyric close. 
With all the venal soul of dedicating rroser 
No I though his artless strains he rudely sings. 
And throws his hand uncouihly o'er the siring*. 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care ne trace, 
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow wiui grace • 
Wbeo B"*"****** befriends his bumoie luunc. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



And h*u(ti the rnstle stranger up to fame, 
Witti heart-fell throes his grateful bosom swells, 
The godlike bliss, to giye, alone excels. 



'Twas when the slacks get on their winter-hap, 
Anrl ihack and rape secure the toil wou-crap ; 
Polatoe-biii?s are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coining Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unniimber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles. 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on every side. 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The fealher'd field-mates, bound by Nature's lie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but iidy bleeds. 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Ejccept perha ps the Robin's whistling glee. 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide 

blaze. 
While thick the gossamour waves, wanton in the rays. 
•Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and pix)r, simplicity's reward ; 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr 
By whim inspir'd, or ha|)ly prest wi' care ; 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route. 
And down by Simpson's' wheel'd the left about': 
(Whether imiiell'd by all-directing Fate, 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether, rapt in meditation high. 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why :) 
The drowsey Dungeon-clock^ had number'd two. 
And Wallace Tower't had sworn the fact was true. 
The tide-swoln Firth with sullen sounding roar, 
Through the siiil night dash'd hoarse along the shore : 
A" 'Ise was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree : 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream. — 

When, lo I on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
Tlie clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. 
Swift as the GosX drives on the wheeling hare ; 
Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the risingpiers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo of ihesp'ritual fo'k ; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelp-es, a', they can explain them,) 
Andev'nlhe very deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appear'd of aucieul i ictish race, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 

* A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 

tThe two steeples. 

t Tb« gos-bawk, or falcon. 



Yet teughly doure, he bade an nnco bang. 

New Brig was buskil in a braw new coat, 

That he, at Lon on, frac ane Adams, got ; 

In's hand Ave taper staves as smooth's a bead, 

Wi' virls and whirlygigums ai the head. 

The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, 

Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; 

It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 

And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he 1 

Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 

He, down the water, gies him this guideeu y— 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep shank, 

Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank. 

But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 

Tho' faith that day, IdouLit, ye'll never see 

There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, 

Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense. 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street. 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, 
Vour ruin'd, formless bulk o'slane an' lime. 
Compare wi' hoiinie Brigs o'modern time? 
There's men o'taste would tak the Ducat-stream,' 
Tho' they should cast the very sark an swim. 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
Of ■:c an ugly Gothic hulk as ypii. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! pufl^'d up wi' windy pride I 
This monJe a year I've stood the flood an' lide : 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forlairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn t 
As yet ye little ken aooii'. the matter. 
But twa-tnree winters will inform you better, 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs ihe brawling Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil. 
Or where the Greenock winds his moreland course. 
Or iHunted Garpal\ draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting ihowcs, 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat. 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an brigs, a' to the get* ; 
And from Glenbuck,X down to the Rotton-key,* 
Auld Ayr is just onelengthn'd, tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies; 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost 
That Architecture's noble art is lost) 

* A noted ford, 3u<!t above the Auld Brig. 

t The banks of Garpal Water is on* of tl e '?w 

places in the West of Scotland, where those faiicv- 

scaring beings, known by the name of GAa««/«, stii] 

continue pertinaciously to inhabit. 

X The source of the rivjr Ayr. 

§ A small landing place above the large key. 



22 



BURNS' POEMS. 



NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't ! 
The L — (I be lliank'l thai we've lint the gate o'll 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaisi-alluring etlificea. 
Hanging with threat'uing jut, like precipices; 
O'er arching, moukiy, gloom-inspinng coves 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, 
And still the second dread command, be free, 
Their likeness is not .found on earth, in air, or sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any mansion, reptile, bird, or beast; 
Fit only for a Joiied Monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, 
Or cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! 



AULD BRIG. 

O yfi, my dear-remember'd, ancient yenlings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings I 
Yt worthy Proueses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay; 
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveeners, 
To wliom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ; 
Yfc godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred feown, 
Wha meekly gie your kurdies to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers: 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
We'-e ye but here, what would ye say or do? 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melanclioly alteration ; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and place 
Wlien ye begat ihe base, degen'rate race! 
Nae langer Rev' rend Men, their connlry's glory, 
In |)lain braid Scots Solp forth a plain braid story 1 
Nae langer thril'iy Citizens, ar.' douce. 
Meet nwre a pint, "r in the Council-house ; 
bu; staumrel, corky-heaie.d, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three-parts maile by Tailors and by Barbers, 
Wha waste your weli-iiaiu'd gear ou d— d new Brigs 
and Harbours 1 

NEW BRIG. 

Now hand you there ! for faith ys've said enough. 
And niuckle mair than ye can raak to through. 
As for your priesthood, i shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But under tavour o' your langer beard. 
Abuse o' Magistrates might well be spar'd ; 
To liken iheni to your auld-warld squad, 
I muil needs say, comparisons are odd, 



In Ayr, Wag-wits na mair can hae a handle 

To mouth "a Citizen," a term o' scandal : 

Nae mair the Council waddles dovrn the street, 

111 all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grew wise priggin owre hopes an' raisins 

Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. 

If haply Knowledge, on & random tramp, 

Had slior'd them with a glimmer of his lamp. 

And would to Common-sense, for once ueiray'd them. 

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 



What farther clishmaclaver might been said. 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood lo shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the gliuering stream they feally danc'd ; 
Briglitto the moon their various dresses glanc'd '. 
They footed o'er the walry glass so neat. 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath iheir feet: 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'Lauchlan,' thairm-inspiriiig Snge, 
Been there to hear this ."-eavenly band engage. 
When thro' his dear Strat:uspeys :; t.v bore. wiUi High- 
land rage, 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs. 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his tligliland lug been nobler fir'tl, 
And ev'n his malcliless hand witli finer touch iiispil-'di 
No guess could tell wlial instrument appear'd. 
But all the soul of Alusic's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part. 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd. 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came tlie loveliest pair in all the ring. 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Sprina ; 
Then, crown'd with llow'ry hay, came rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his leivid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering i lenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Auiuinn wream'd with nodding corn ; 
Then Winter's lime-bleach'd locks did hoary show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next foUow'd Courage with his martial stride. 
From where the Peal wild-woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the towVs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures irode 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 
Last, white-rob'd i eace, crown'd with a hazel wrjilh, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their fcinWrl^ 
wrath. 

* A well know:! performer of Scottiish music on tho 
7ioliii. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



23 



tUf. OftlJiNA'PION. 



f or sense they little owe to Frugal Heaven— 
To ptea«<i the Mob tney nirie th« little givea. 



I. 

KtLMARNOCK Wabsters fiiige an' claw 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather lax au' draw, 

Of a' deuomialioiis, 
Swift to the Laigfi Altri, aiie an' a' 

An' there tak up your stations ; 
Then aft" to B-gU — « m a raw, 

Au' pour divine Itoations 

For joy this day. 



II. 



Curst Camraon Sense that imp o' h45, 

Cam io wi' Maggie Lauder ;* 
But O "««••♦ aft made her yell, 

An' R ***•* sair misca'd her ; 
This day M' **•••♦♦ takes the flail, 

And he's the hoy will bland her 1 
He'll clap a s)iangan on her tail, 

Au' set the bairus to daub her 

Wi' dirt this day. 

III. 

Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
O' double verse come gie us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae uiair the knaves shall wrang he, 
For Heresy is in her pow'r, 

Au' glsriousty shall wlian^ her 

Wi' pith this day. 

IV. 

Cr>tie, let a proper text be read. 

An' touch it aff wi' vigour, 
How graceless HamA leugii at his Dad, 

Wliicli made Canaan a iiiger ; 
Or PkinccusX drove the nninltjring blade, 

Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zip}JaraJi,% the scauldin jade^ 

Was like a. bluidy tiger 

i' til' inn that day. 



There, try his mettli. on the creed. 
And bind him down wi' caution, 

• Allud.iig to a scoffing ballad which was made on the 
»dmissii'n ol the late Reverend and worthy Mr. L. to 
UieLaighKirk. 

f tieuesis, chap ii. 22. INumbers, ch. xxv. rer.8. 
§Jixodus, en. IV. ver. 125. 



That Stipend is a carnal weed 

Hetaks but for the fashion ; 
Au' gie him o'erthe flocks, to feed, 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin. 

Spare them nfte da? 

VI. 

Now ajild Kilvmmock cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns fu' canty , 
Nae mair thou 'It rowte pul-owre the dale. 

Because thy pasture's seamy ', 
For lapfu's large »' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
Aji' runts o' grace the pick an' wale, 

No gi'ea by way o' dainty. 

But ilka da;. 

VH. 

Nae mair by BabtVn streams we'll weep, 

To tiiink upon our Zwa; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin j 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' chttep. 

And o'er the thairms be tryiu ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wlieep, 

Au' a' Uk« laj(,b-tails fly in 

Fu' fast this day! 

VIII. 

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. 

Has dier'd the Kirk's undciii. 
As lately F-nw-ck sair fortairu, 

Las proven to its ruin : 
Ourlatrwi, honest maH! Glencaim, 

He saw mischief was brewiu ; 
Aiid like a godly elect bairn. 

He's wal'd ue out a true ane. 

And sound this day. 

IX 

Now R« • • * « • « harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever ; 
Or try the wicked town ri A** 

For there they'll think you clever 
Or, luie reflection on your lear. 

Ye may commence a Sliaver 
Or 19 tlie N-th-^-t-n repair. 

And turn a Carpet-weaver 

Ati-haud this day. 

X. 

M * * * * * and you wera just a matcfi. 

We never had sic twa drouea : 
Auld Uornie did the Laigk Kirk watct. 

Just like a winkin baudrons ; 
And ay' he catch 'd the tither wretc*- 

To fry them in Wa caudrons ; 
But iiuvv his honour aiauu detach, , 



24 



BURN ' POEMS. 



VVi' a' hi» Imstnne sqiiarlrons, 

Fast, fasc this day. 

XI. 

See, Bee auld Orthodoxy's faee, 

She's swingein thro' ihe city ; 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays I 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, with his Greekish dee, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
Ana Common Sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her 'plaint this day. 

xn. 

But there's Mortality himsel, 

Embracing all opinionf ; 
Hear, how he gles the titlieryell, 

Between his iwa companions ; 
See, now she peels the skin an' fell. 

As ane were peelin onions 1 
Now there — they're packed affto hell. 

And banish'd our dominions 

Henceforth this day. 

XIII. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 
Come bouse about the porter I 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter ! 
M' **••***, R"**'* are the ooya, 

That Heresy can torture ; 
They'll gie her on a rape and hoyse 
Aud cow her measure shorter 

By th' head i 



iday. 



XIV. 

Come bring the tither mutchkin in. 

And here's, for a conclusion. 
To evury New Ldght" molher'sson, 

From this time forth, Confusion : 
If mair they deave us with their din, 

OrParsonage intrusion. 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them affin tusion 

LiKe oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 



TO THE REV. MR 

OnhisText, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 2. '• And they 
shal: g'j iorth, {indgrow up, lise caives of the stall," 

Rl GHT, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 
Though Heretics may laugh ; 

* iVsM Light is a ^ant phrase in the West of Scotland, 
for those religioup opinions which Dr. Taylor of Nor- 
»ii>i has delendedsobuenuously. 



For instance ; there's yonrsel jtwi now, 
God knows, an unco Calf J 

And should some Patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na. Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as gr»al a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Slot J 

Tho', when some kind connubial Dear 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug most reverend JaniM, 
To hear you roar and rowte. 

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 
To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead. 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justic« they may mark your head— 

" Here lies a tamous Bullock J" 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



O Prince! O Chief of many throned Powrrm, 

That led ih' embattled Seraphim to war. 

' MILTON 



THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, orCloctie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie. 

Closed under hatchet 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches 

Hear me, auld Hrmgic, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'msuresma' pleasure it can gie^ 

E'en toadeiV, 
To skelpan' scaud poor dogs like me. 

An' hear us squeel I 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thv fame ; 
Far lr«nd and noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yonlowinheugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far; 
An' faith 1 tLou's neither lag nor lame. 

Nor blaie nor scaur 

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion. 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryiu ; 
Whyles on the strong- wing'd tempes' flym, 
Tirling tlie kirks \ 



BURNS' POEMS. 



25 



vn>y!ei. In Jhn human boBom pryin, 

Unseen ihou lurki. 



I Te heard my reverend Grannie say, 
In laiiely glens ye like lo stray ; 
Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Yt frisfat the nightly wanU'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Grannie, summon 
To say her prayers, dounce, honest woman t 
Aflyontthe dyke she's heard you bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin. 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter nie;ht. 
The stars shot down wi' sklenlin light, 
Wl' you, mysel, 1 gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Te, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shalte, 
Each Lristl'd hair stood like a slake, 
When wi' an eldritch, stoiir, quaick — quaick- 

Amaug the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake. 

On whistling wingi. 

Let viarloeks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags 
They skim the muirs, an' di/zy craigs, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirjt yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence kintra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh I the yellow ireasuie's ta'en 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie^s gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidnian, fond, keen, an' crouse ; 
When the best wark-l'ume i' the liouse. 

By cantrip wit, 
Isinstant made no worse a louse, 

Just at the bit. 

WTienthowes dissolve the snawy hoord. 
An' float the jiiiglin icy-boord 
Then Wal%r-kelpies haunt the foord. 

By your direction. 
An' nighted Trav'Uers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkitt 
Pecoy Uie wight that late an' drunk is : 



The bleeiin, curst, mischievoiis n.Oftteys 
Delude h.s e>ea, 

Till in some miry slough he sunk is. 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Mason' a mystic word an' gnp 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun atop. 

Or strange to telM 
The youngest Bi other ye wad whip 

AffslraughttohelH 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 
When youihfu' lovers first were pair'd. 
An' all the soul o^ love they shar'd 

The raptur'd hour. 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird 



In shady bow'r; 



Then you, ye auld, snic-drawingdog I 
Ye came to Paradise incog, 
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue. 

Black be your fa' J 
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a' 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizs 
Wi' reckit duds, an' restit giz?., 
Ye did present your smouiie |)liiz, 

'Mang better fo'k. 
An sklented on the man of Uzz 

Your spitefu' Joko 

An' how ye gat himi' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall, 
Wfiile scabs an' blotches did liim gall 

Wi' bitter claw, 

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 

Was warst ava? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fetchtin fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael^ diil you pierce, 

Down to his time. 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're tbinma 
A certain Bardie's rantin, drmkin, 
Some luckless hour will send liim hnkin, 

To your black pit : 
But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkiu, 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel. auld Nickie-ben! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' I 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake— 
I'm wae to think upo' yoi. de«i, 

Ev'u for youriokti 

• Vide Milton, Bock VI. 



2x5 



BURNS' POEMS. 



DEATH AND DYING WORDS 

OF 

POOR MAILIE, 
THE author's only PET YOWE. 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE 

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither 
Were ae clay nibbling on the lellier, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre sue warsl'd ui the diich' 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Uui'liac' he cam doytiu by. 

Wi' glowin een, an' lifted hand's, 
Poor Hagkoc like a statue stan"s ; 
Fie sa-v her days, were near-hand ended, 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it I 
He giiijed wide, but neathing spak ! 
At length i oor Mailie silence brak. 

" O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' easel 
My dyini^ words attentive hear, 
Au' bear them to my master dear. 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep, 
As muckle gear as buy a slieep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair I 
But ca- Ihem out to park or hill. 
An' let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' i 

" Tell him, he was a master kin'. 
An' ay was guid to me and mine ; 
An' now my dying charge 1 gie him, 
^iy helpless lambs 1 trust them wi' him. 

" 0' bid him, save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives I 
But gie them guid cow-rai!k their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend tliemsel : 
An' tent them didy, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. 

" An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ithervile wanrestfu' pets! 
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
Atstackso' pease, or stocks o'kail. 
So may they, like their great Forbears, 
For raoiiie ayearcome thro' the sheers: 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread. 
An' l-airus greet for them when they're dead. 

•A ueebor herd-callau. 



" My poor toop-lamb, my son on' heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi, care 1 
An', if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some bavins in his breast ! 
An' warn him, what 1 winna name, 
To stay content wi'yowes at hame { 
An, no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless brute*. 

" An,niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop ; 
But ay keep mind to moopan' mail, 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysell 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breaUkf 
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith : 
An when you think upo' your Mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, 
To tell my master a' my tale-i 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
An' clos'd her e'en amang the dead. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trick Ung down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close. 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad capestaa of his woes ; 

Poor Mailie' s deadt 



It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear 
Or mak our baidie, powie, wear 

The mourning weed t 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear. 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro a' the town she trotted by hira ; 
A lang half mile she cculd descry hira ; 
Wi' kiudiy bleat, when she did spy hira, 

She ran wi' speeJ ; 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 

Than Mailie aead. 

I wat ahe was a sheep o' sense. 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greeu. 
Our baedie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Moihe's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image in heryowe, 
Comes bleating to him, owre the Kno»<$. 

For bitso' breua; 
An down the briny pearls rovve ' 

For Mailie dead 



BUKNS' POEMS. 



27 



She was i aeget o" moorland tips, 
Wi' tasv(dl kel, an hairy liips ; 
For her forhears were brough'. in ships 

Fii.cyontthe Tweed 
AbonnierJJeeA ne'er cross'd the chps 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie tiling — a rape ! 
It maks guid fellcws girn an' gape, 

Wi' chokin dread ; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' ci-ape, 
For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ; 
An' wha on ^yryour chanters tune ! 
Come, join ihemelaucholious croon 

O' Iiooin''s reed I 
His heart will never get aboon 1 

His Mailie dead. 



TO J. S' 



Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 
Sweet 'uer of lile, and solder of society 1 

I owe the much. 

B1.AIR. 



DEAR S****, thesleest, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts j 
For ne'er a bosom yet was brief 

Against your arts. 
For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 

That auJd. capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for scrinipit stature, 
She's lurn'd you aff, a human creature 
On 'mrjirsl plan. 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature. 

She's wrote, the Man. 

Just now Iv'e ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle'-- working prime 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon ; 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin ? 

Some rhyme, a neebor'a name to lash ; 
•Jf-me rhyme, (vain thoujlit ! ) for needfu' cash 
Some rhyme to court the kiiitra clash, 
An' raise a din ; 



For me, an aim I never fash ; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my kickless lot. 
Has fated me the russet coat. 
An' damn'd my fortune to ti e groat ; 
Buy in requit, 
Has bless'd me wi'a random t>hot 

O'kiutra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent t 
But still the mair I'm that way bent. 

Something cries, •' Hoolie 
I red you, honest men, tak tent ! 

Yfc'U sliaw your folly. 

" There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in GreeA, deep meno' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in sliapeless tetters. 

Their unknown pages,' 

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs. 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thracg, 
An' teach the lanely heights an' huwes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread, 

Then, all unknown, 
I '11 lay me with the inglorious dead. 

Forgot and gone I 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living sound and dale, 
Then top and maintop crowd th« aiV . 

Heave care o'er side I 
And large, before enjoymeai's gale. 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand. 
Is a' enchauuted, fairy land. 
Where pleasure is the magic wand. 

That wieldeil rijht, 
Maks hours, like minutes, had iii liaiul, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic-wand then let us wield ; 
For ance that five-an'-forty's sptel'd. 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd faea. 
Comes hostiu, hirpliu owre the field, 

Wi' cieepin pace. 

When ance 7i/e's day draws near the gloamia 
Then farewell vacant careless roainin ; 
An' fareweel, cheerfu' tankards tuan.in, 
An' social nuise ; 
An' fareweel, dear, deluding wornan, 

Thejoy of joy 8 1 



28 



BURNS' POEMS. 



O liife ! howpleasant in thy morning, 
Youn? Fancy's rays the hills adorning! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning. 

We frislc away. 
Like school-boys' at th' expeitlert warning, 

To joy anJ play. 

We wander there, ww wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among the leaves ; 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, 
For which they never ^oil'd nor swat ; 
They driulc tlie sweei, and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some fortune chase ; 
Keen Hope does every sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race. 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in somecozie place. 

They close the day. 

And others, like yovir humble servan', 
Poor wights 1 nae rules nor roads obserrin ; 
Torighl or left, eternal swervin, 

They zig-zap on ; 
Till cruiit with age, obscure an' sla< vin, 

They after groan. 

Alas I what bitter toil an' iraining — 
But truce with peevish, poor complaining ! 
Is fortune's fickle Luiia waning ? 

E'en let her gang I 
Beneath what light she has reiriaiuing. 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 
And kneel, " Ye i^wers !" and warm implore, 
" Tho' 1 should wander terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

An rowth o' rhymes. 

" Gie dreeping roasts to kuitra lairds. 
Till icicles hiug frae their beards, 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life guards, 

And maids of honour ; 
And yill an' whisky gie to cairds. 

Until theyeconner. 

" A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to M illie Pitt ; 
Gie wealth to some be ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. 
But gie me real, sterling wit, 

And I'mcontent. 

" While ye are plcas'd to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal^ 



Be't toater-broie, or TnusOn-knil, 

Wi'cheerfu' face. 

As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace.' 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 
, As weel's I may ; 

Sworn foe to sorrow, care and prose, 
I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, cairn and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool 

How much unlike I 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives, a dyke. 

Hae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces 1 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray. 
But, gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae g'lve. nae doubt ye're leiie I 
Nae ferly tho' ye do Ueoj-ise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattlin squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

—Ye ken the road.— 

WhilstI— buti shall baud me there — 
Wi' you I'll icarce gang ony where- 
Then, Jamie, 1 shall say nae mair. 

But qiiat my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

WTiere'er 1 gang 



A DRE.\M. 



Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames 

reason ; 
But surely dreams were iie'er indicted treason. 



[On reading, in the public papers, the Lattreat't Ode, 
with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author 
was no sooner dropped asleep, than he imagined him. 
self to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming fan- 
cy made the following Addreen.} 



I. 



GUID-MORNING to your Majeitvl 
May heav'n augment your blisses, 

On every new birth-day ye see, 
A humble poet wishes I 

My hardship here, at your levee. 
On sic a day as this is, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SO 



|i fure an iincotith sight to fee, 
Aiiia:ig llie bivlh-clay dresses 

Sae fine this day. 



I tee ye're complimented thrang, 

By niome a lord and lady ; 
••God save the king!" 's a cuckoo sang 

Thai's unco easy said ay ; 
The potta, too, a venal sang, 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But ay unerring sleady, 

On sic a day. 

III. 

for me ! before a monarch's fate, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter; 
For neither pension, post, nur place. 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So, nae reflection on your grace. 

Your kinarsliip to \,espatter ; 
There's mouie waur been o' the race. 

And aiblina ane been belter 

Than you this day, 

IV. 

'Tis very true my sov'reign king. 

My skill may weel be doubled ; 
But facts are chiels that winna ding, 

An' downa be disputed : 
Voiir royal nest, beneath your wing, 

la e'en right reft au' clouted, 
Alid now llie third part of the string, 

An' less, will gan$ about it 

Than didae aay. 



Far be 't frae me that I aspire 

lo biame your legislation. 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. 

To rule this mighty urtiioa! 
But, faith ! 1 muckle dr-ubt, my Sire, 

Ye're trusted minisiration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or b)Te, 

Wad belter fill'd their staiion 

Than courts yon day. 



VI. 

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace. 

Her broken shins to plaster 
Your sair taxation dues )icr fleece, 

Till she hus scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank (iod uiy lile's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
©r, faith 1 1 fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' itie cral'i subm ,d<iy. 



VII. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' n'ilVs a true guid fallow's get, 

A name nut envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But, G-d-sake 1 let nae saving-fit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

VIII. 

Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax corruption's neck. 

And gie her for dissection 1 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

lu loyal, true affection. 
To pay your Queen, wilh due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birth-day. 

IX. 
Hail, Majesty Most Excellent 1 

While nobles sirive to please ye. 
Will ye accept a cumpLmeut 

A simple poet gies ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairn lime, Heav'iihas lent, 

Slill higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, lill fate someday is sent. 

For ever lu release ye 

Frae care that day. 



For you, young potentate o* W , 

1 tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swellings 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails. 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or, raill'ddice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

XI. 
Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To make a noble aiver ; 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne, 

Por a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him' at Agincourt wha shons. 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer SirJohn,^ 

Ue was au unco shaver 

For monie a day. 

XII. 



For you, right rev'rend O 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve swester, 
Alihough a ribban at your lug 



Wad been a dress completer : 
•KingHenry V. 
tSir JohuFalstad': vide ShakB^iea 



50 



BURNS' POEMS. 



As ye disown yon paughty Jog 

Tlial bears the keys of I eter, 
Then, swilh ! an' get a wife to hng, 

Or, trouthl ye'll slain the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

XIU. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley,* stem an' stern, 

Well rigg'd for Venus'' barter; 
But first haiig o>it, that she'll discern 

Your hymenial charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple airn. 

An', large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

XIV. 

Ye, -aswy, honnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty 
Heav'n mak you guid as weelas braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer nae British boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant ay ; 
An' German gentles are but s?na', 

They're belter just than want ay 
On onieday. 

XV. 

God bless yon a' 1 consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dauiet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be thro', 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou. 

That yet hae larrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, 1 trow. 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day 



THE VISION. 



DUAN FIRST .t 

THE siHi had cloa'd the winter day. 
The curlers quat their roaring play, 
Au' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green. 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's vrtury fiingin-tree 
The lee-langday had tired me ; 
And when the day had clos'd his e'e, 
Far i' the west, 

• Alludlnt; to the newspaper account of a certain 
royal saibr's amour. 

tOiOTn, a term of Qssian's for the different divisions 
of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii. of 
M'Pherson's translation. 



Ben i' the spend, right pensivelie, 

1 gaed 10 rest. 

There, lanely, ny the iiigle-clieeK, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 
That fill'd, wi' hoasl-provoking smeek, 

The auld ciay biggia ; 
An' heard the restless rattous squuak 

About the riggin. 

All in this mottle, misty clime, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' dons nae-thing, 
But 8tringin blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 

r strutted in a bank an ' clarkit 

My cash account : 
While here, half-mad, hall-fe>i, half-sarkit. 
Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof. 
To swear by a' you starry roof, 

Orsomerashaith, 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath— 

When click 1 the string the snick did draw ; 
And jee 1 the door gaed to the wa' ; 
An' by my ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant a,ith, half-form'd, was crusht; 

1 glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blushi. 
And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows ; 
I took ber for some Scottish Muse, 

By tliat saroe token ; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been bro<ea 

A " hair braiu'd, sentimental trace," 
Was strongly mai-ked in her face ; 
A wildly -witty, rustic mace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with hon'>ur, 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen ; 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it; 
Sae stFaught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else came near {*• 



BURNS' POEMS. 



31 



Her mantJe large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing woiuler chielly drew ; 
Deep lights ajid shades, bold-mingling threw, 

A liisue grand ; 
And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, 

A well known land. 
Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, iiirabling billows mark'd the coast, 

Wiih surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boa^t, 

The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods ; 
Tiiere, well-ffti frwine stalely thuds : 
A Ud hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods. 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds. 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
An ancient borough rear'd her head ; 
Still, aa in Scottish story read. 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair 
Or I uins pendent in the air, 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some aeem'd to mus3, some seem'd to dare. 
With feature stem. 

My heart did glowing transport feel. 
To see a rac«* heroic wheel, 
And brandish round the deap-tly'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
W hile back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their stubborn foes. 

His country's saviour ,t mark him well 1 
Bold Richardton' 8% heroic swell ! 
The chief of Sark^ who glorious fed. 

In high command ; 
A.id he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a scepter'd Pictish shade,1I 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
1 mark'd a martial race, portray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 



The "Wallaces. 



t William Wallace. 



J Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the im- 
mortal preserver of Scottish independence. 

§ Wallace, Laird of Craigie, 'tvho was second in com- 
mand, under Douglas earl of Ormond, at the fomous 
battle on the banks of Sark, fought armo 1448. That 
glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious 
conduct, and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of 
Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action. 

IT Coilua, kingof the Picts, trom whom the district of 
Kyle is said to take its name, hes buried, as tradition 
says, near the family-seat of the Monteomeries of 
Coil's field, where his burial-place is still shown. 



Thro' many a wild, ron ar tic grove,* 
Near many a hermii-fancy'd ccve, 
(i'it haunts for friendship cr foJ- liive; 

In musing mond, 
An agedjitdge, I saw him rove. 

Dispensing gooj. 

With dsep-struck reverential awef 
The learned sire and son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their loire. 
This, all its source and end ,'o draw, 

That, to adore. 

Brydone^s brave wardj I well could spy. 
Beneath old Scoria's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on fame, low stamliug by. 

To hand him on, 
Whei'e many a patriot name on high. 

And hero shone. 

DCJAN SECOND. 

WITH musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heavenly-seeming Jair ; 
A whispering throb did witness bear. 

Of kindred sweet. 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet, 

" All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard. 

Thus poorly low I 
1 come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

" Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand. 

Their labours ply, 

" They Scotia's race amang them share J 
Some fire the S(„j5er on to dare ; 
Some rouse th? patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the bard, a darling care. 

The tuneful art. 

" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore. 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, 'mid the vernal senate's roar. 

They, sightless, stand. 
To mend the honest patriot-lore. 

And grace the hana. 

"And when the bard, or hoary sage. 
Charm or instruct the future age, 

• Barskimming, the seat of the Lord Justice-Clerk. 

t Catrine, the seat of the late doctor and pre«ea* 
professor Stewart. 

J Colonel Fullarton. 



3i 



BURNS' POFMS. 



They bind ihe wild poetlt rage 

In erergy, 

Or point Uie inconclusive jiage 

Full on the eye. 

" Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; 
Hence Demjjster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Ileiice sweet iiarmonious Beattie sung 

Kis ' Minstiel lays;' 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

*' To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
The rustic Bard, the labVing Hind 

The Artisan ; 
All chuse, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

" When yellow waves the heavy grain. 
The threat'ning storm some strongly rein, 
Some teach to meliontate the plain 

With tillage-skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blyihe o'er the hill. 

" Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some sooth tne lah'rer's weary toil. 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and paini. 

" Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore ai large man's infant race, 
To mark tlie embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

•' Of these am I—Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r: 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 

Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze 
Fond, on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroll'd chiming phrase. 

In uncouth rhymet, 
Fir'd al the simple, artless lays 

Of other limes. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his lleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grnn aaturfe's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

" Or, when the deepgreen-mantl'd earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. 
And joy and uiuxic pouring forth 

Iji ev'ry jjroTe, 



I saw ?hee eye the gen ral nilrth 

With bcundlesk Iot*. 

" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
1 saw thee leave their evening joys. 

And lonely stalk. 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

in pensive walk. 

" When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, gpateful.to thy tongue, 

Th' adored iVam* 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To sooth thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

"WdiS^light from heaveu. 



" I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends. 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 

Become my frienda. 

" Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melling throe. 

With Shenstone's art. 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

•' Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose. 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 
Tho' large the forest's monarch throwi 

His army shade, 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 

" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine : 
And trust ine, not Potosi's mine, 

Nor king's regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic Bard. 

" To give my counsel all in one 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; 
Preserve the Dignity of Man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust, the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

" And wear thou this'' — she solemn said, 
And bound the Holly round my head ; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play | 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

in light away. 



BUUJSS' POEiMS. 



3? 



ADDRESS OF THE UNCO GLID, 

OR, THE 

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 



My 8on, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump ilieia B.y thegither ; 
TIk" Rigid Riglileous is a tool, 

The Rigid Wise anithsr : 
The clcauesi com timi e'er was rtighl 

May hae some pyles o' chaft' in ; 
Soiie'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fiu o' daltin. 

Solomon. — Ecclea.ch. vji. rer. 16. 



1. 



(» YE wha aresaeguid, your*el, 

Sa« pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

V our neebor'u faults and folly 1 
Whase lile is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi' store o' water. 
The heapet happer's edding «till, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

n. 

Hear m», ve venerable core. 

As counsel for poor mortals. 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals; 
!, for their thouehtless, careless sake*. 

Would here propone defencf s. 
Their donsie tricks, their bluck rriistakes. 

Their failings and mischances. 

in. 

Ye see vonr state wi' theirs compar'd, 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair resard, 

What maks the mighty differ ; 
Discnunt what scant occasion 5a ve. 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 



IV. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragiugs must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Riehtou ye scud your sea-^ra . i 
But i.i \'uf teeth o' baith to sal!, 

It iiiak^i an unco leeway. 



See social life and glee sit dowo. 

All joyous and unthinking. 
Till, quite transmogrity'd, they're ercam 

Debauchery and drinking : 
O would they stay to calculate 

i'h' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to tasre, 

D-mnation of expenses I 

VI. 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces. 
Before yegie poor /rai^ry names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
Adearlov'd lad, convenience sung, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me wisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

vn. 

Then gently scan your brother man. 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wran^; 

To step aside if human : 
One point must still be greatly dark. 

The moving zcAy they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Yin. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord— its various tone, 

Each spring, its various bias; 
Then at the balaiite let's be mute. 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may comput*, 

Uui know not what's reeUted. 



TaM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. 



An honest man's the noblest work of Go<l. 



Has auld K seen the Deil .' 

Or great M''*****'t thrawn his hsel ! 
OrR" * * * * * again grown weelj 

To preach an' read. 

•■When this worthy old sportsman went out tan 
•nuir-lowl season, ht sujiposed it was to be, in Ossian's 
jhrase, " the last of his fields ;" and expressed an 
irdent wish to die and be buried in the niuirs. On 
this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph. 

t A certain preacher, a great favourite with the mil- 
lion. Kide the Ordination, stanza 11. 

\ Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, 
who was at that time ailing. For hiin, see aiito the 
dinalion, siaii'oi IX. 

B2 



^4 



BURNS' POEMS. 



•• Na, wauf than a !" cries ilka ehiel, 

Tarn. Samson's dead ! 

K* ******** langmay grunt an' grane 
All' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, 
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, 
In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tam Samson's dead I 

The brethren of the mystic level 
May hiug their head in woefu' bevel. 
While by their nose the tears will revel. 
Like ony bead ; 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel : 

Tam Samson's dead I 

When winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the loughs the curltvs flock, 

Wi' Kleesonie speed, 
Wha will thsy station at the / ick ? 

Turn Sarnson'a dead I 

He was the kingo' a' the core. 
To g«!ard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
» )r up the riuk like Jehu roar 

111 time of need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Targ Samson's dead I 

Now safe the stalely sawmont sail, 
And irouts bedropp'd wi' c>-imsoii hail^ 
And eels weelkeuu'd forsouple tail. 

And geds for greed. 
Since dark in death's^/i-cree/ we Wail 

Tam*arason dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock your fud I'u' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae if now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead ; 

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd, 
Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd, 
Wlu'le pointers round impatient biirn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, och ! he gasd and ne'er retuni'd 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
111 va^iu the burns came dow^ii like waters. 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greeiiu , clatters, 

Ta.u Samson's dsadl 

Owre many a weary has; he limpit, 
An' ixy tlie tither shot he ihumpii, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead I 



When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swaggei , 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weei aira'd heed ; 
" L — d, five 1" he cry'dan' owre did stagger, 

Tam Samson's dead I 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
You auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Wha-re Bums has wrote, in rhyming blether, 
Tam Samson'' s deadi 

There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps U))on his niould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch an' breed : 
Alas 1 nae mair he'll them molest 1 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yan grave, 
Thiee volle'f let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouiher an' lead. 
Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead I 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be I 
Is th' wish o' monie mae than me ; 
He had twa faults, or may be three, 

Yel what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tam Samson's dead I 



THE EPITAPH. 

TAM SAMSON'S weel-worn clay here lie*, 

Ye canting zealots, s))are him 1 
If honesl worth in heaven rise 

Ye'li mend or ye win near him. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' nouks o' Killie,* 
Tell ev'ry social, honest bi41ie 

To cease his grievln, 
For yet, uuskailh'd by death's gleg guUie, 

Tam Savtson's livin. 

HALLOWEEN.! 



The followiHg Poem will, by many readers, be well 
enough uiiderstond ; but for tlie sake of those who ?.re 
unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the 
country where the scene is cast, notes are added, to 

• Killie is a phrase the country-folks sometimes use 
for Kilmarnock. 

t Is thoucht to be night when witches, devils, and oth- 
er mischief makins beings, are all abroad on their bine- 
ful, midnight errands; particularly those aerial people 
Fairies, are said ou that night, to hold a grand ai>- 
tuvernary. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



35 



five eorae account of the principal charms and spells 
<A that (light, so l^ig with prophecy to the peasantry in 
the west of Scoliand. 'J'lie passion of prying into fu 
•.urity iidAkes a striking part of tlie history of human 
nature in its rude slate, in all ages and nations ; and 
u rnay i)e some enteriainnieni Co a pliilosopliic mind, 
if any such should honour the author with a jierusal, 
to see the remains of it, among the more uueuiighten- 
ed in our ov/n. 



Ves ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
T J me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

GOLDSMITH. 



I. 



UPON that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Doionans* dance, 
Or owre the lays, insplendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance j 
Or for Colean the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the cove] to stray an' rove 

Amaug the rocks and streams 

To sport that nighl 



Amang the bonnie winding banks, 

Where Doon rins, wimpling clear, 
Where Bruce| ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To 6um the nils, an' pou their stock, 

Ail' liaud their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that nighl. 



III. 

•fhe lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm an' kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-baba, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some imco blate, an' some wi' gabs, 

Uar lasses' hearts gang startin 

Willies fast at night. 



* Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the 
icighbour hood of the ancient seal of the Earls of Cas- 
•ilis. 



tA noted cavern near Colean-house, called The Cove 
Colean ; wiiich, as Cassilis Downans, is famed in 
country stoi-y for being a favourite haunt of fairies. 

I The famous family of that name, the ancestors ofi 
Robert, 'lie great deliverer of Uis country, were EarU 
•/ Ciurisit. 



IV. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their sroc^s* maun a' be sought ance ; 
Tney sleek their een' an' graip an' wale, 

For muckle anes an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail. 
An' pow't for want o' oetter shift, 

A rtmi was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that nlghi 



Then, straught or crooked, yird or uane, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin, rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouthers ; 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them. 
Sync coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cauuie care they place them 

To lie that nighl. 

VI." 

The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o' com;] 
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn ; 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast j 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost. 

When kitilin iu the faui!>.-house:t 

Wi' him tha'. nigh;. 

VII. 

The auld guidwife's weel horded nits^ 
Are round an' round divided, 

• The first ceremony of Halloween is, pulling each a 
stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand iu 
hand, with eyes shut and pull the first they meet with : 
Its being big or little, straight or crooked, is inophetic 
of the size and snape of the grand object of all their 
spells — the husband or wife. Ifanyyi»-d, orearth, stick 
to the root, that is Zoc/ier, or fortune ; and the taste of 
the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of 
the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, 
or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, 
are placed somewhere above the head of the door ; and 
the christian names of the people whom chance brings 
into the house, are, accoi ding to the priority of placing 
the runts, the names in question. 

t They go to the barn-yard and pull each, at three sev- 
eral times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the 
toppickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the 
party in question wll come to the marriage-bed iny 
thing but a maid. 

J When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too 
green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old limber 
&c., makes a large apartmeniin his slack, with an open- 
ing in the side which is fairest exposed to the wiiid : 
this he calls a/ai/se-Aoi/se. 

§ Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They nnme 
the lad and lass to each particular nul, as they lay tlif ni 
in the fire, and accordingly as they burn quietly logctii. 
er, or start from beside one another, the course ajJ is- 
sue of ihs courtship will be. 



36 



BURNS' POEMS. 



An' moriie lads' and lasses' fates, 

Ais there thatnie;hl decided : 
Some kindle, coutliie, side by side 

An' liiini tSieeitlier uimly ; 
SonriB Stan awa wi' saucie pride, 

And juiny oui-owre the cliitnlie 

Fu' high that night. 

VIII. 

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'iwas she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 

She savs in to hersel ; 
He bleez'd owreher, an' she owrehim. 

As tliey wad never iiiair |,ar> ; 
Till fnfi'! he s'.arled up the liim, 

And Jeau had e'en a sair heart 

To see'l that night. 

IX. 

Poor Willie, wi' his how-kail runt, 
Was bnmt wi' primsie MuUie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, look the drunt, 

To be compar'd to Willie ; 
Mrdl's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling. 
An' her ain fit it burnt it ; 
tVhile Willie lap, and swore by jing, 
'Twasjusl the way he wanted 

To be that night. 



^Jell had the fanse-hotise hi her mln', 

She pits hersei an' Rob in ; 
-In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

Ti shite in ase they're sobbin ! 
Nell's heart was dancin at the view, 

She whisper'd Rob to leiik for'l: 
Rob, stowlinf, prie'd herbonnie mou, 
Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

XI. 

But Merran satbehint their backs. 

Her thoiiahis on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gasliin at their craks, 

Ai-1 slips out by hersel : 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln slie goes then. 
An' darklins grapii for tlie bauks, 

And in the blue-clue' throws then. 

Right fear't that night. 

XII 

An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, 
I wal she made nae jaukin ; 

* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must 
strictly observe these ilirei-tions : Steal out, all alone, 
to the i-;/n, and, darkling, thr.nv into llie pot a clue of 
blue yarn; wind it in a new clue oft' the old one ; .ind. 
towards the latter end, soniethiji? will hold the thread : 
H«inand wha hauds J i. e. who holils ? an answer will 
bo returned from the kiln pot, by naming the Chris 
tiunaud suruiuue »{yovr futttre sponge. 



Till something held within the pnt, 

Guid L — d! but she wasquakinl 
But whether 'twas the Deil hiinsel, 

Or whether 'twas a hanken, 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did ua wait on taikin 

Toispier that i.igbt 

XIII. 

Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, grannie ? 
I'll ent the apple' at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnie :" 
She fuft"'t her pipe wi' sick a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin, 
She notic'l na, an azie bri.nt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Ouitbro' that night 

XIV. 

" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

}|ow daur you try sic sporiin. 
As seek tlie foul Thief oiiy place, 

For hi;n to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Ureal cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For nionie a ane has gotten a fright, 

Au liv'd an' di'd deleeret 

On tic a night. 

XV. 

" Ae hairst afore the Shcrra-moor, 

I uiind't as weel' yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was nae past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

An' slufi' was unco green ; 
An' ay a rantin kirn v/e gat. 

An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

XVI. 

" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fellow ; 
He's sin gat Kppie Sim w'.' wean. 

That liv'd in Acliniaclla : 
He gat hemp-seed,^ 1 mind it weel, 

Au he made unco light o't ; 

* Take a candle, and go alone to a looking p'nt 
eat an apjile before it, and some tradition- ^uu 

shoukl comb your hair, all the time : ■'■ ....cof your 
conjugal companion, to Se, will be 8eci> ai (he glass, as 
if peeping over your shoulder. 

t Steal out unperceived, and sowahandfnl of hemp 
seed ; harrowing it wiii. „nv thing yon can conveni- 
ently draw after yon. Repeat now and then, " Hei ip 
seed 1 saw thee, hemp seed 1 saw thee ; and him (%n 
hei-; that is to be niv true love, come after me and [lou 
thee." Look over your left shoulder, ai-d yon will see 
the appeaj-ance of the jjerson invoke<l, in tiie attitude 
of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, "come after 
me and shaw thee," that is, show thyself: ii, which 
case it simply appears, i )i hers omit the harr owing 
aud say, " come after me, and hanow the*." 



BURNS' POEMS. 



37 



But monte a dav was by himset, 
kit w&i tae nairly frighted 

That vera uight." 

XVII. 

Then r.p gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

All' hs "woor by his conscience, 
TriaL lie coLild xaw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense ; 
The aulil guidmau raughl down the pock, 

An' out a handful' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip fra 'maug the folk 

Someiin»e when nae ane see'd him, 

An' try't that night. 

XVIII. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

The' he was something sturlin ; 
The graip he for a. harrow taka. 

An' haurls at his curpin : 
Au' ev'ry now an' then, iie says, 

" Hemi)-seed I saw thee, 
An' her tliat is lo be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee, 

As fast this night." 

XIX. 

He whistl'd up Lord Lenox' march, 

To keep his courage cheerie ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch. 

He was see fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a sijueak, 

An' then a grane an' gr\int!e ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek. 

An tumbl'd wi' a wuitle 

Out-owre that night. 

XX. 

He roar'd a horrid mnrder-shoul, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' aukl came riiinin out, 

To hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hiichin Jean M'Craw, 

Or cruchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that night' 

XXI. 

Meg fain wad to the baTn gaen 
To will three ivechts o' naelhing ;* 

* This chirm must likewise be performed unperceiv- 
ed, and al.me. You sd to the ft''.' n, and open both 
doors, tiikiiigthem otl'llie liin 'es, if possible ; for there 
is danger llia't the hei/is, ;iI)'>mI to appear, may shut the 
doors, am; do you some mischief. Then lake tluit in- 
sv.'iieir. used in wiiino.viiis the corn, which, iu cur 
(.uUiitry dialect, we tail a wecht ; and go ihrougli a., 
the atiiliides of letting down corn ajaiiist the wind. 
Repeat it three limes ; and the third tune an appari- 
tion will pass through the barn, in at the windy door, 
and out at the other, having both the figure in question, 
and the ap; earance or retinue, marking the employ- 
aoeat ur statiou in life. 



But for to meet the deil her lane. 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits. 

An' twa red cheekit apjiles, 
To watch, while for the 6rt/77 she sett, 

la hopes to see Tarn Kijiplea 

That vera night. 

XXII. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw. 

An nwre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca' 

Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
Aratton rattled up the wa'. 

An' she cry'd L — d preserve her 
An' ran thro' Tiidden-hole an' a'. 

An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervour, 

Fu' fast tliat digM. 

xxni. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice : 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack he fcuidom'd thrice,* 

Was limmer propl far thrawin : 
He tacks a svvirlie, auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes came haurliu 

All's nieves that nigb? 

XXIV. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kitileii ; 
But Och ! that iiiglil, amang the shaw^s. 

She got a fearfu' selilin ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn. 

An' owre the hill giied scrieviu, 
Whare ihree lairdi^ Lcntds met at a bwn\ 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in. 

Was bent thet ni^liU 

XXV. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays. 

As thro' the glen it wimpl'l ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whiles in a wiel il dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing da/.zle ; 
Whyles cookit undenretlh the braes. 

Below the spreading hazel. 

Unseen that night. 

* Take an oiiportnni'.y of suing, unpotic'd, to a B ;3»>- 
stack, And failiiiin n tliiee times round. The last lati- 
om of the last lime, you wii' retell in your arms the s.y 
pearance of your future conjiigil yoke-fellow. 

t You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, 
tr a south runiiiiis suriim or rivulet, where ' '.bree 
I lairds' lands meet," and dip your left sr,,i i sieeve. 
Go to bed in sighl of a fire, ami hang your wet slefva 
before it to dry. Lie awake ; and som.etinie neat mid- 
night, an apparition, having the exact figure of ths 
grand object in question, will co.ne and turn the sleev* 
as if to dry thii other sitJa of it. 



3S 



BURNS' POEMS. 



XXVI. 

Amaiig the hrachens, on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon, 
The (leil, or else an oiiile'- cuey 

Gat up an gae a cruou : 

Poor Ijeezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Neer lav'rock height she jiimpit, 
But misi a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the luga she phimpit, 

Wi' a pKuige that night. 

XXVII. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The lusgies three* are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

Ti) see them didv changed • 
Aiild uncle .lohn, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mar's year did desire, 
Because he gat thetoom-dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire 

]u wrath that night. 

xxvni. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wal they dinna weary ; 
An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery, 
Till buUer''d so'ns,t wi' fragrant liijjt, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strimt, 

They parted afl'careerin 

Fp' blythethat night. 



THE AULD FARMER'S 

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION 
TO 
HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, 



On giving lier the accustomed Ripp of Com to hansel 
in the New-Year. 



A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie I 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 

I've seenihe day, 
Thou could hae gaen hke ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

* Taice Onree dishes; put clean waterin one, foul 
water in another, leave the third empty: blindfold a 
person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes 
are ranged ; he (or she) dips the left hand : if by chance 
in the clean water, the future husband or wife will 
come to the bar of mainmony a maid ; if in the foul, a 
widow; if in the empty dish, it foreiells, with equal cer- 
tainly, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, 
and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered. 

tSowens, with butter instead of milk to them is al- 
ways the IlcUlmoeen Supper. 



Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' CT«Bf, 
An' thy auld hide's as while's a daisy, 
Tve seen thee dappl'l, sleek, and giair.ie. 

A honnie gray : 
He should been tight that d.iur'i to raize thee. 
Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
Aja/y btiirdly, steeve, an' swank. 
An' set weel down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 
Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine an' twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my good father's meere; 
He gied me thee, o' tociier clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won geai-, 
An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was troilin wi' your minnie : 
The' ye was trickle, slee, an' fuunie. 

Ye ne'er was donsie J 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie. 
An' unco sousie. 

That day, yepranc'd wi' muckle pride 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride ; 
An' sweet, an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, 
For sic a pair, 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a jinker noble. 

For heels aii' win' i 
An' ran them till they a' did warble, 
Far, farbehu)'. 

When thou an' I were young an' skeigh. 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. 
How thou wau prance, an, snore, an' skreigh, 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou -was corn't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For piih an' speed j 
But ev'ry tail thou pay'i them hollow. 

Where'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle. 
Might aiblins waur't lliee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles ihou try'l their mettle. 

An' gar't them whaizie . 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O ' saugh «r hazel. 

Thou was a nohle/«ie-i!(CT', 
As c'(>r in tug or low was drawn 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Alt thee an' I, in aught Jjours ^un, 

On a;uid March weather, 
haeturn'd sax rood besideour lian', 

For days ihegither. 

Thou never brainclg't, an' fetch't, an' fiiskit, 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whisket. 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 
Wi' pith, an' pow'r, 
TilV spritty knowe* wad rair't and nsket, 
An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
An' ihreaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac'tit : 
Tliou never lap, and sten't, and breastit. 
Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit. 

Thou snoov't awa. 
My pleughis now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw : 
Forbyesax mae, I've sell't awa. 

That Ihou hast nnrsf 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa. 
The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat I 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin. 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin 

For my last /ok, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anilher ; 
Wi' tentie care, I'll flit thy tether. 

To some hain'd rig. 
Where ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH 

THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785. 

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 
O. what a , anic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle' 



1 wad be laith to rin an' chase thff, 

Wi' mui-dering ;5cT»/s / 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has bniken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion. 

Which maks thee s'Ji-niM 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

An' fellow mortal J 

I doubt na, whyles,but thou may thieve; 
What then? poor beastie, thou niaua live 1 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request: 
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, 

And never miss 't I 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O ' fog gage green I 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 

Baith snell and keen I 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste. 
An' weary winter comin fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell) 
Till crash! the cruel ro«/?er past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or bald. 
To thole the winter's s.'pety dribble. 

An' cranreuch cauldl 

But, Mousie,thou art no thy lane, 
In proving, foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men. 

Gang aft a-gley. 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an pain, 

Forpromis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e. 

On prospects drear, 
An' forward, tho' 1 canna see, 

I guess aa' fear. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er yon are. 
That bide the pelting of this jjiiyless sturm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and iniled sides, 
Your loop'd and wnidow'd raggedness, liHiemi 

you. 
From seasons such as these ?— 

SHAKS; EARJi. 



WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp ihivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 



40 



BURNS' POEMS. 



When Phabus gie» a shorl-liv'd glow'r 
far south the lift, 

Diin-dark'mng thro' Ihe flaky show'r. 

Or whirling drift: 

Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd 
Pour labours sweet in sleep waslock'd, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-chock'd, 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or thro' the mining outlet bock'd, 

Down headlong hurl. 

l.ist'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thipught me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly slieep, wha bide this brattle, 

O, winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing snraitle. 
Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chitterin wing. 

Au' close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Ijonc iromyour savage homes exil'd, 
The blood-staiu'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd 

My heart forgets. 
While pitylesi the tempest wild 

Sore on you beau. 

Now Phoebe, In her midnight reign 
Dark mukfld, view'd the dreary plain, 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

tJlow, solemn, stole — 

•' Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust, 

#.nd freeze, thou bitter-biting frost 1 

Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 

Not all your ra^e, as uuw united, show* 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice, unrepenting, 
Then hcav'n illumiu'd man on brother man bealowa 1 

See stern oppression's iron grip. 
Or mad ambition's gory hand, 

Sending, Uke blood-hounds from the slip, 
Wo, want, and murder o'er a laud I 

Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale. 

Truth, weeping, tells the nicurnM tale. 
How pamper'd luxury, flati'ry by her side, 

The parasite empoisoning her ear. 

With all the servile wretches in tlie rear, 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 

And eyet the simple rustic hide, 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 

A creature of another kiHd, 

Some Coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vilebelov; 

Where, where is love's fond ten.Vr throe, 

With lordly honour's snUly brow, 
Tki« jiow'rs you proiidly owa 



Is there beneath love's noble name. 
Can harbour, dark, the seltish aim. 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love pretending snares, 
This boasted honour turns away 
Shunning soft pity's rising sway. 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs 
Perhaps,"" this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest. 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast. 
And with a mother's fears .shrinks at the rockin( 
blast I 

Oh ye ! who sunk in beds of down. 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown I 
lU-satisfy'd keen nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
"While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap 1 

Think on the dungeon's grinfconfine. 

Where guilt and poor misfortune pine 1 

Guilt, erring man, relating view 

But shall thy legal rage pursue 

The wretch, already crushed low 

By cruel fortune's underserved blow? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother, to relieve, how exquisite the blisi I 

I heard nae mair, for Chanlrcleer 

Shook off the poulhery snaiv. 
And haii'd the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my mind- 
Thro' all his works abroad. 

The heart, benevolent and kind, 
The moat resembles tiod. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET.' 



January— » 



WHILE winds fraeaff Ben Lomond, bl&w. 
And bar the doors vvi' driving suaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse orlwa o' rhyme, 

In hamely westlin jingle. 
While f-osty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 
That live sae bien an' snug: 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker. 
To see their cursed pride. 



• David SUlar, one of the c'nh i 
luthor of a volume of i <«ijis lu il.e r: 



irhoKnn. And 
«h iliatect. t^ 



BURNS' POEMS. 



41 



.1, 



It's hardljr in • x^dy's pow'r, 
To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are wiiiies in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to v/air't : 
But, DoJjie, lad, ne'er fash your head 

Tho'we nae little pear, 
We're fit to wm our dnily bread. 

As lang's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na', nor fear na, "* 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg. 
The last o't, the warsto'l, 

is ooiy for to beg. 

III. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 

When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, 

Is doubtless, great distress ! 
Vet then content could mak us blest ; 
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba'. 
Has ay some cause to smile, 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma ; 
Nae mair then, w'U care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

IV. 

What tho*,like commoners of air, 
We wander out, we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
yet nature's charms, the hills and woods 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
(u days when daisies deck the ground. 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound 
To see the coming year ; 

On braes when we please, then. 

We'll sit an' sowth a tune ; 
Syne rAyme till't, we'll time till'l 
And sing when we hae done. 

V. 

It's no in titles nor In rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in mankin muckle nuiir : 
lt'» no in hooks; it's no in lear, 

To make us truly blest : 
If happiness hae nut her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 

But never can be blest ; 

* Rameay. 



Nae treasures, ntr pleasiireii, 
Could make us hap]iy lang ; 

The heart ay's the part ay. 
Thai makes us rigiilor wraiig. 

VI. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I 

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry 

Wi' uever-ceasiug-toil ; 
Think ye, ar' we less blest then they 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way. 

As hardly worth their while ? 

Alas 1 how aft in hsighty mood, 

God's creatures they oppress 1 

Or else, neglectnig a' that's guid. 

They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless, and fearless 
Of either heav'n or hell ! 
Esteeming, and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale I 

VII. 

Then letu? cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them j'et. 
They gie tlie wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken our-e. . 
They make us see the naked truth, 

The real guid and ill. i 

Tho' losses, aud crosses. 
Be lessons riglit severe. 

There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'llfinduae other where. 

VIII. 

But tent me Davie, ace o' hearts ' 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartM, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' \.he pleasures o' the heart. 

The lover an' the I'rieii' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
And i my darling Jean I 

It warms me, it charms irie, 
To mention but her na:iLe : 
It heats nie, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on Same 1 

IX. 

O' all ye pow'rs who rule above ! 
O 7%ou, whose very self art looe! 

Thou know'st my words sincere I 
The life-blood streaming thro' inv he»r , 
Or my more dear, immortal part. 

Is not more fondly dear ! 



BURN^' POEMS. 



When hein-corrod-.ns; cave andgiief 

Deprive my soul or rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, Au-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her 
Thi/ most peculiar care 1 



All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since, this world's thorny -"vays 
Had iiumber'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has bless 'd me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

XI. 

how that nam.e inspires my style I 
The words come skelpin rank and lile, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phoebus and the famous Nme 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 

And then he'll hilch, and stilt and jimp, 

An' rin an unco fit : 

But least then, the best then, 

Should rue this has^ ride, 

I'll light now, and dightnow 

His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT, 



OCCASIONED BY THEUNFORTUNATEISSUE 
OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. 



Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself, 
And sweet AflTection prove the spnngof wo ! 
HOME. 



I. 

O THOn pale orb, that silent shines, 
While care-'introubled mortals sleep ! 

Thouseest a wretch that inly pines. 

And wanders here to wail and weep ! 
•^'ith wo I niglitly vicils keep, 
Beneath thy wan unwarmitig beam ; 



And ranurn, in lamentation deep. 
How life and iove are all a dream. 

II. 

I joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill ; 
I joyless view thy trembling horn. 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be stiU ! 

Thou busy pow'r. Remembrance, ./ease 1 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace 1 

III. 

No idJy-feign'd poetic pains. 

My sad, love-lorn lameutings claim. 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft attested pow'rs above : 
The pT07>iis'd Father's tender name : 

These were the pledges of my love I 

IV. 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and hers alone I 
And must 1 think it I is she gone. 

My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan ? 

And IS she ever, ever lost i 

V. 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart 

So lost to honour, lost to truth. 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth f 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmouth 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then who her pangs and pains will soothe. 

Her sorrows share and make them less / 

VI. 

Ye winged hours that o'er us pass, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd. 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. 
That breast how dreary now, and void, 

Fbr her too scanty once of room I 
Ev'nev'ryray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom I 

VII. 

The mom that warns th' approaching day, 

Awake me up to toil and wo : 
t see the hours in long aiTay, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe. 

Keen recollection's direful tram. 
Must wring my soul, ere ThoBbuB, low, 

Shall kiss the distant, western main 



BURNS' POEMS. 



43 



VIII. 

And when mv nightly couch I try, 

3.ire-harass'U out with care a.nA grief, 
M V toUbeai nerves, and lear-worii eye, 

Keep watcliiiigs with ihe nightly thief: 
Or if 1 slumber, fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard-wihl, in sore aifright ; 
Ev'n day, all-hitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 



IX. 

O ! thou bright queen who o'er th' expanse, 

Now liighesi reign'st, with boundless sway 1 
Oft has thy silenl-marlcing glance 

Observ'd us, fondly-waiid'ring, stray 1 
The time, unheeded, sped away. 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 

X. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set : 

Scenes, never, never, to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again 1 burn I 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn. 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn ' 

A fa I tlviess woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY, 



I. 



OPPRESS'D with grief, oppreas'd withcai-e, 
A burden more than I can oear 
I sit me down and sigh : 
U life ! thou art a galling load, 
A long a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as 1 cast my view. 
What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro', 
Too justly 1 may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom; 
Mj woes here shall close ne'er, ' 
But with the closing tomb 1 



II. 



iJappy, ye sons ofbusy life, 
Whoeijual to the bustling strife, 

No oiner view 7«.gard ! 
E'en wlien the wished etvl'g deny'd. 



Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Wliilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight. 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night. 
And joyless morn the same ; 
Von, bustling, and justlins, 

Forget each grief and ynda i 
I, listless, yet restless, 
i'lud every prospect vain. 



How blest the Solitary's lot. 
Who, all-forgetting all-forgot. 

Within his humble cell. 
The cavern wild with tangling routa, 
Sits o'er his newly-gathei 'd fruits. 

Beside his crystal well I, 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thouglit. 

By uiiirequeuied stream. 
The ways of men are distant brougbl, 
A faint collected dream : 

While prai-ihig, and raising 

his thoughts to heav'n on l:igh, 
As wand'riiig, raeand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 



Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footsieep tracM, 

Less fit to play the part; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
Aiidjust to stop, 3LtidJust to move, 

With self-respectiug an : 
But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and ji>y» 

Which 1 too keenly taste, 
The Solitary coiu despise. 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst 1 here must cry here. 
At perfidy ingrate ! 



Oh ! enviable, early days. 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's i 

To care, to guilt unknown I 
Kow ill exchang'd for riper times, 
To leeitne follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport. 

Like linnets iu the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court. 
When manhood is your wish I 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active man eiigase I 
The tears a:'., the tears all. 
Of dim-Ueclining a,%e 



44 



BURNS' POi MS. 



WINTER. 



THE wintry west extends his blast, 

Anti hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or, ihe stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and siiaw ; 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae baiik to brae ; 
And bird and beasl in coven rest 

And pass the heartless day. 

H. 

* The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,'* 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

T\ian all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl it soothes my soul, 

iVly griefs it seems to join. 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 
Their fate resembles mine. 

III. 

Thon Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fidlil. 
Here, firm, i rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Tlvj ^Vi;l ! 
Then all I waul (O, do ilion grant 

Tips one re.|uesi of mine ! ) 
Since to enjoy thou dost <isnj 

Assist tue to rcsisn. 



THE 

COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 

INSCRIBED TO R, A • • • *, ESQ.. 



Let nnt ambition mock their useful toil, 
The.r homely joys, and destiny obscure : 

Nor BTHndeur hear, with a disdainful smile 
The short but simple ainials of the poor. 



GRAY. 



I. 



My Ijv'd, my lionour'd. ni'ich respected friend 
No mrrceiiary Oai'il his liumage pays ; 

Will, ho-iesi pride 1 scorn each sellisli end ; 

My dearest meed, a frienil 's esteem and praise : 

To jrou 1 sing, in simple Hcotcish lays. 

The lowly irain in life's sequester 'd scene ; 

Th4 native feelings strong, the guileless ways t 



What A* * ** in acottageiwould ha^e been , 
Ah 1 tho' his worth uukuowa, far happier there 



U. 



NoTember chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

Theshort'ning winler-<lay is near a close : 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose I 
The toil-worn Cotter, frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end. 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, anU nis boes. 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
And weary, o'er the moor, his coui-sedoes hamuwarj 
bend. 



in. 



At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee-ihings, toddlin, stacher thro' 

To meet their Dad, xi' flichterin noise au glee. 
His wee bi^ ingle, blinkhi bonnily. 

His clean heart stane, his thrifiie wife's snoilc, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 

Does a' hin weary, carking cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labour aa' his toil. 



IV. 



Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 

Al service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some heiird, some leutie riii 

A cannie errend to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

Inyoutbfu' bloom, love si;arkling in litre'e, 
Comes liame, perhajis, to show a braw new gruwu. 

Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they iu hardship be. 



V. 



Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weellare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'dui/notic'd fleet 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; 
The parents, partial eye their hopeful years; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
ThuTnother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the ue 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 



VI. 



Their master's an' their mistress's command. 

The younkersa' are wanietl lo obey ; 
" An' nund their labours Wi' ai: ey^'.^nt hand. 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight to junlT or play : 
An' O : be sure to fi;ar the Lord alway ! 

An' mijid ynnrdiity, duly, morn an' night I 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that souglit the J 
aright 1" 



BURNS' POEMS. 



4S 



VII. 



Bu' hark ! a rap comes genily to th6 door ; 

Jenny, wiia kens Use meaning o' ihe same, 
Tells liowa iicelior lail cam 3'erihe moor, 

To <lo some errands, anil convoy her Imme. 
The. wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny^s e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
Will., heart-struck, aiixious care, inquires hisiiame, 

\\hi\f. Jenny hafllins is afltaid to speak ; 
VVeel pleas'd the mother hears, it'saae wild, worth- 
less rake. 

VIII. 

Wi' kmdlv welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 

A airappan youtii ; he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blyihe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The lather cracks of horses, plenghs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' ;oy, 

B'lt h'a:e and hiithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles can spy 

What makes the youth sae baslilu' an sae grave ; 
Waei pleaa'd to iliink her iairn'g respected like the 
lave. 

IX. 

O happy love! where love like this is found 1 

O heart-l".lt raptures ! bliss beyond compare I 
I've paced much this weary tnortal round, 

And sage experience bids rue this declare— 
" II Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
Tis when a youthful, lovhig, moilest pair, 

111 others arms breath out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thoi-n that scents the ev'ning 
gale." 



X. 



It there, Ic human form, thai bears a heart — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth 1 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet /eTiny'a unsufipectiiig youth? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

f-oii\ts to the parents fondling o'er their child? 
Then paints the ■ um d maid, and their distraction 
wild ? 



XI. 



But now the supper crowns their simple board. 

The halesume ^arri^cA, chief o' Sco/ia's (ood : 
Tnesoupe their only Hawkie does afford, 

Tnai 'yont the halUui snugly chows her cood : 
The dame brings forth in complimentalmood, 

'I'o grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, 
A» " afihf.'s prest, an' at't he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal witie, garrulous, will i.e'l, 
Bow 'twasa lowmond anlu,8ijr Unl wag i' thebeli. 



XU. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They round the ingle, torn; a circle wide ; 
The sire lunis o'er wi' patriarchal grace, 

The bi^lia^ -Bible, ance his failier'* pride : 
His bonnet lev'iently is laid aside, 

His lyart hafl'ets wearing thin an' bare : 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion \vi;li judicious care ; 
And '• Lei us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. 

XIII. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise : 

They tune their hearts, by far the in.olesi aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild wuruling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Mirtyrs, worthy of the name : 
Or noble Elgin beats thcheav'nward flame. 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Nae unisou liae lliey with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was ihe friend ofGotl oahigh ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With AmaLek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or bow the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire | 
Or, /oi'o paiheuc plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacreil lyr«, 

XV. 

Perhapt the Christian volume is the theme. 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed , 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name ; 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many aland • 
How he who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw 111 the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
Aad heard great Bab' Ion' f doom prouuunc' 
veil's command. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal Km?, 

The satnt, the father, and ihe hiisba.id r.rHVs i 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant xMi-i.'" 

That thus they all shall meet in future dayg : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
Together hymning their Cr«a;o/-'s praise. 

In such society, yet stiil mere dea' ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

XVII. 

Compar'd with this, how poc"* Religion's nnde, 
In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
• Pope's Windsor Pgrsal. 



46 



BURN.--,' POEMS. 



W'heu laeit display to congregations wide, 
Devotion's ev'ry grace, excepl ihe heart J 

The Pow'r, iucens'd, the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 

But haply, in some cottage lar apar:, 
May hear, well plejis'd, the language of the soul : 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

XVIII. 

Then homeward all tak off their sev ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret komage pay, 

And proS'er up to Heaven the warm request 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

Fcr them and fcr their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in then" hearts with grace divine preside. 

XIX. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs. 

That makes herlov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God :" 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the pa/ace far behind ; 
What is a lordling"s pomp ! a cumbrous load, 

Disguising of the wretch of human kind, 
^Studied in arts of hell, iu wickedness refin'dl 

XX. 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

P'or whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 

Be bless'd with health, and peace, and sweet con- 
tent 1 
And O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile I 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronetshe rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of tire around their much-lov'd Isle. 

XXI. 

O T^ou .' who pour'd the patriotic tide 

Ttatstream'dlhro' H'allace'd u udaunted heart ; 
Whodar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 

His friend, iiispirer, guardian, and reward !) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert : 

But still ihe patriot, and the patriot bard, 
la bright succession raise, her oruameul and guard 1 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A DIRGE. 



WHEN chill November'* surly blast 
Made nddi and forests bard. 



One ev'niug, as 1 wander'd fonh 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow 'd o'er with year*, 

And hoary was his hair. 

n. 

" Young stranger, whither wand'resl thou i 

Began the reverend sage ; 
" Does thirst of weaUh thy step ccnstraOi, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ; 
Or haply, press'd with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man I 

III. , 

" The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out;spreac!:ng far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen you weary whitei -suu 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry tune has added proofs. 

That man was made to luouru. 

' IV. 

" O man ! while in thy early years, 

How proiligul of ti'Tie I 
Mispending all thy precious hours. 

Thy glorious youthful prune ! 
Alternate follies lake the sway ; 

Licentious passious burn ; 
Which tenlold force gives nature's law. 

That man was made to iiiouru. 

V. 

" Look not alone on youthful prime I 

Or manhood's active might j 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported in his right : 
But see him on the edge of life. 

With cares and sorrows worn. 
Then age and want. Oh ! ill match'dpcUt, 

Show man was made lo mouru. 

VI. 

" A few seem favourites of fate, 

In I'leasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think, not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in ev'ry lana. 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary Ufe this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mouru, 

VII. 

" Many and sharp the Dum'rousillt 
luvk-^veu with our fraruv ! 



BURNS' rOExMS. 



47 



0u 

IJnm 



More puiuted still we make ourselves, 

Re^el, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erfccled lace 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn I 

VIII. 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 
Fo abject, mean, and vile, 
Who tegs abrotherot'the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his \ordly fells-w-worm 
;.e poor petition spurn, 
'mindful, iho' a weeping wife 
And helpless offspring mourn. 

IX. 

'- If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave, — 

By nature'* law design'd, 
Why was an inoependent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
^fnot, why ami subject to 

His cruelly or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn ? 

X. 

" Yet, let not this, too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breiisi : 
This partial view of human-kind 

Js surely not the lasl J 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn 

XI. 

" O death I the pooi man's dearest friend. 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest 1 
The great, th« wealthy, fear thy blow. 

From pomp and pleasure lorn ; 
But, Oh! abless'd relief to iliuse 

That weary-ladea luuurn !" 



PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT 

OF 

DEATH. 

I. 

O THOO anknown. Almighty Cause 

Of ail my hope and fear 1 
la whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

P«rha pa I miul appear I 



II. 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun; 
As smnethirtg, loudly, in my f>ireast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

III. 

Thou know'st that thou hafst formed roe 
With passions wild and strong : 

And list'ningto their wilchhig voict 
Has often led me wrong. 

IV, 

Where human weakness has com« snort 

Or Jrailty stept aside, 
Do thou All-Good ! for such thou art. 
In shades of darkness liidc. 



V. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good ; and goodne»b»nU 

Delighteth to forgive. 



STANZAS 



ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

WHY am I loath to leave this earthly scene ? 

Have I so found it full of phasing ci.armB .' 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between •' 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing stormai 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unloveiv, dreary, dark abode? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in AiTiS ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 



Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offenre "' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again disyense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray : 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should 1 for heavenly mercy pray. 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mouBu'd, yet to tempiaiiiui ran ' 

O thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifledeyo to Thee, 
T hy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

0/ still the tumult of the raging sen : 
With that controlling pow'r assisi^ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit 1 feel my pow'rs to be. 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
O, aid me with thy help, 0;.-wii//o;&«te UiviiieJ 



48 



BURNS' PORMS. 



LYING .T A REVKRBXD FRIKND'S HOUSE 
ONE NIUHT.ThE author LEFT 

THK FOLLOWING VERSE 5 

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 



O THOU Oread Pow'r, who reign'st above 1 

) know thou will me liear : 
When for this scene ol' peace and love, 

1 make my pray'r sincere. 

IL 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 
liOiis, long, be pleas'd to spare ! 

To bless his little filial flock, 
And snow what good men are. 

lit. 

She, who her lovely offspring eye» 

With tender hopes an fears, 
O bless her with a mother's joy», 

But sjiare a mother's tears I 

IV. 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manliood's dawnino; blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish I 

V. 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'si the snares on ev'ry band, 

Guide iLou their steps al way : 

VI. 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 

I >'er life's rough ocean driv'n. 
May ihcy rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 

A family in Heav'n I 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

THF man. in life wherever plac'd, 
ilath liap|jin3.5« in siorp, , 

Who walks not in the wicked's way, 
Nor Itarns their guilty lore 1 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 

Oasis forth his eyes abroad. 
But Willi humility and awe 

Still walks before his (iod. 

Tliat man shall flourish like the tree* 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 



The fruitful top is spread oi 
And firm the root below. 



Uafi^ 



?nt he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be ca^i, 

And like the rooiloss sinbUe, lust 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
liaihgiv'n them peace and rest. 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



A PRAYER, 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OP Vl'-tLKNT 
ANUUISH. 

O THOU Great Benig ! what thou ait 

Sui-]:)as8es me lo know ; 
Yet sure 1 am, that known to thee 

Are all iliy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stand*, 

All wretched and distresL ; 
Yet sure those ills thai wrnig my suui 

Obey thy liigh behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelly or wrath 1 
O, free my weary eyes from tear*. 

Or close them last in death I 

Dnt if I must afilictfid be, 

To suit some wise desisn ; 
Tiieri man my sou) with linn resolvet 

Tu hear and nut repine 1 

THE 
FIKST SIX VERSES OF T'lE .NMN'ETIKTII 

PSALM 

O THOU, the first, the greatest friei.o 

Of all the human race! 
Whose strong riglit hand has ever beeu 

Their stay aiiddwiUling place I 

Before the mountains heav'd their iwsaila 

Beneath thy forming h.atnl. 
Before this pond'rous globe itself. 

Arose al thy command ; 

That pow'r which rais'd and still uphold* 

This universi"! frame, 
From countless, unbeginning iiiue 

Was ever stiP the same. 

Those mighty ppriodi of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no move before thy sishl 

Than ycfterday that's past. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



4S 



Th >u giv'si the word : Tby creatuie, iiiau, 

la to exisieace brought : 
Apai" ihou say'sf , "Ye sons of meD, 

Return ye ialo nought I" 

fhou layeat them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
> « vi'-th a flood thou talt'st them otf 

With overwhelming sweep. * 

They flourish like the morning fiow'r, 

III beauty's pride array M ; 
Bui long ere night cut down it lie« 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TtinXlNG ONE DOWN WITH THE 
PLOUGH IN APRIL 1786. 

WEE. modest, crimson-tipped flnw'r, 
Tdou's met me in an evil hour ; 
for 1 maun crush amans the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
I'o spare thee now is past my pow'r. 

Thou bnuuie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
Thp bonnie f^rlc, companion meet ! 
Bendiug thee 'mang the dewy vveet ! 

Wi' spreckled breast. 
When upward-spriiiging, blythe to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Vet cheerfully thou glinted t'.jrth 

Amid the storm. 
Scarce rear'd above the parent eanh 

Thy lender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stano., 
Idomsthe histie ttibble-jield. 

Unseen, alane. 

There in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Ahy snawy bosojj aun-ward spread, 
'liou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now thesAare uptears thy bed, 

Aud low thou lies I 

Such is ihe fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet/ouj'rerofthe rural shade I 
By love's simplicity belray'd, 

Andeuileless trust. 
Till she. like thee, allsoil'd is" laid 

Low i'the dust. 



Such is the fate of simple Uard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless siarr'd t 
L nskilful lie to note the card 

0{ pTudent lart 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er 

Such fate oT sitffnrins: worth \3 giv'n. 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n. 

To mis'ry's bnnk, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven 

He, ruin'd, sinn 1 

Ev'n thou who mourn 'st the Daisy's fate 
That fate is thine — no distant date; 
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate 

Full on thy bloom, 
rill crush'd beneath the furrow's weight . 

ShaU be thy doom J 



TO RUIN. 



I. 



ALL hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destructiou-brea tiling Word« 

The mightiesi emiiires f.iU 1 
Thy cruel wo-deligliied train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
Withstern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
Aud quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring, and pouring, 

ThesfOT-m no more I dread ; 

Tho' thick'ningand black'uing, 

Round my devoted head. 



II. 



And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd. 
While life a />/«ftKMre can afford. 

Oh I hear a wretch's pray'r; 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid. 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul in swept peace. 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbing cease, 
Cold mould'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain ray lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and errcsped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



TO MISS L— , 

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS ASA NEW YEA« 

GIFT, JANUARY I, 17ti7. 
AGAIN the silent wheels of time 



"heir amiual round have driv'o. 



AsuS you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer Heav'u. 

No gifts hy.ve I from IncViaa coasts. 

The infant year to hail ; 
I sena you more than Indian boasts, 

Iq Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with gniie and faithless love 
Ucharg'd, perhaps, too true; 

But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

MAY-1786. 



I LANGhaethouglit, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kind memento ! 
But how the subject-theme may gang 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Psr.haps it may turn out a sang 

Perhaps Ciirn out a sermon. 

Ye'U try the world soon, my lad. 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'U find mankind an unco squad, 

And mu,-.kle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'nwhen your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Whenev'rj nerve is strained. 

III. 

I'll no say, men are villains a' ; 

The real, liarden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae checK but human law, 

Are to a few reslricked : 
Bu.t och ! mankind are unco weak, 

An' httletobe trusted ; 
If se// the wavering balance shake. 

It's rarely right adjusted. 

IV. 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Tfcsir fate we should nae censure, 
For Svill th' important end of life. 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortilh hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak f-neeDor's part, 

Yet has uae casii lo spare him. 

v. 

Ay free, aflhan' your story tell. 
When wi' a bosom croi y ; 



BURNS' POrMS. 



But still keep something lo ynt)>-«*i 

Ye scarcely tell to ouy. 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other mau, 

Wi' sharpen'd, slee inspection. 

VI. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd lr»«. 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt ih' illicit rove, 

Tho' naethingshould divulge »i : 
I wave tVie quantum o' the sm, 

The hazard of conceahng ; 
But och ! it hardens a' within. 

And petrifies the feehng ! 

VII. 

To catch dame Fortune's golden iiaua. 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honour : 
Not for to hide it in a hedge. 

Not for a train-attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Or being independent. 

VIII. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's wkijiw 

To baud the wretch hi order ; 
But where ye feel your Ao?ieur grip. 

Let that ay be your border ; 
Its slightest touches, instant paus^— 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws 

Uncaring consequences. 

IX. 

The great Creatorto revere. 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

Andev'nthe rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity oflended ! 



When ranting round in pleasure's nng 

Religion may be blinOed ; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life were tempest-JrWii, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence flx'd wi' HeaT'u, 

li sure a noble ancfior I 

XI. 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth I 
' your heart can ne'er be wanting j 



BURNS' POEMS. 



51 



Uay prudence, Sirtitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undannliiig '. 
Iii ploughman plirase, " God send you speed, 

Still daily to grow wiser : 
And may you belter reck thererfe, 

Thau ever did tli' adviser ! 



ON A SCOTCH BARD. 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

4* YE wha live by soups o' drink, 
i' ye wlia live by crair.bo-clink. 
>' ye wha live and never think, 

Come mourn wi' me 1 
»>ur billie 'a gien us a' a jink, 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament liim a' ye ratin core, 
JTha dearly like a randomsplore, 
•<ae mair he'll join the mern/-roar, 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore, 

An' owre the sea. 

The bonnic lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in llieir (.Wat pelitiuiui \Aa.ce him : 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 
Wi' learfu' e'e. 
For weel 1 wat they'ilsairly miss him. 

That's owre the sea. 

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ? 
daJst thou ta'eu all some drowsy bummle, 
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 

'Twad been, nae plea ; 
^ul he was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sea. 

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
An' Slain them wi' the saut, saul tear ; 
Twill raak her poor auld heart I fear. 

In flinders flee ; 
Be was her laureate monie a year, 

That'sowiethesea. 

He saw misfortune's caidd nor-west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
<jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be 1 
<8o. Cook a birth afore the mast, 

Au' owre the sea. 

To tremble under Fortune's tummock, 
On icarce a beliyfu' o' drumirock, 
A'i' his ;-roud, independent stomach. 

Could ill agree ; 
<o, rsw't bis hurdles in a hammock, 

An' owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, 
f etcoin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' tuju it ueer was under hiding ; 

Ue dealt it free c 



The muse was a' that he took pride in, 

1'hai'sowre the tea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cazie biel : 
Ye '11 find him ay a dainty chiel, 

And fou' o' glee % 
He wad nawrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the sefc. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie I 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



TO A HAGGIS. 

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
G'-eat chieftain o' the puddiii-race I 
Aboonthera a' ye tak your place. 

Painch, tripe, or tail 
Weel are ye worthy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdles like a distant hill, 
Your^in wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need. 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber beaJ. 

His knife see rustic labour dight. 
An' cut you up with ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails brisht 

Like onie dUch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight 

Warm-reekin, rid. I 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive. 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drunu } 
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad slaw a sow. 
Or fricassee wad mak her s))ew 

Wi' perfect aconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scorafu' view 

On sic a dinner? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. 
As feekless as a wither'd rash. 
His spindle shank a guid whip lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' bloody floDd or field to dash, 

O how unlit I 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 
The trembling earth resounds his treed. 
Clap in his walie uieve a blade, 

He'UmalcUvbuaU 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Ao' legs, an' 



an' heads will sneA, 

Like laps o' ihissle. 



Ve pow'rs, wha mak manKind your care, 
Atiit dish tiii!in oul tlieir bill o' fare. 
Auld Scotland wauls iiae skiiikius! ware 

'I'„dtjaui)sialiiggie9: 
Buijifyewishher.gratef'j' i>ray"r, 

Gie her a Haggis ! 



A DEDICATION 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESa. 

EXPECT na, Sir, in this narratioa, 
A fleechiii,fleth'rin dedication, 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An' si>rung o' great an' noljleblaid, 
Because ye're surnam'd like hisgracef 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'rntir'd — and saeareyBj 
\Vr moiiy a Ailsome, sinfu'lie, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
Tor fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wha 
Maiui plKase the folk for a wamefou ; 
For me ! sae laight I needna bow, 
For, Lord be ihankit, / cari plough ; 
And when 1 duwiia yoke a naig. 
Then. Lord, be thankit, I can beg I 
Sae I shall say, an' that's rae Hatl'nD, 
It's lust sic fioet an' sir patron. 

The Poet, some g-' fie angel help him, 
)r else, 1 fear some ill aneskelphim, 
He may do weel for a' he's doneyil, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie m«f, 
I winna lie, come what will u' me) 
On ev'ry hand it will allo^v'd be, 
Ue'8 just — uae better than he should be, 

I readily and freely grant, 
Hedowna see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he wmna tak it, 
What ance he says he wuiiia break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
Till aft hisguidnessis abus'd : 
Anfl rascals why les that do him wrang, 
Ev'en t'lat, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father. 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, na thanks to him for a' that ; 
Nae godly syni-plom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naethir^ but a milder feature, 
Of our pc<^ sinfu', corrupt nature. 
Ye'll ge< .ne best o' moral works, 
Mang black Gentooa and pagan Turka, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha uaver beard of orthodox/. 



That he's the poor man's friend In need. 
The gf.ntleman'wi word aiid deeti. 
It's no thro' terror of d-mn-iion ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, ttiou deadly bane. 
Thy tens o' thoi.sands thou lia«t Biaiii I 
Vain is his hope, whose slay and trust :« 
In mora:, mercy, truth, andjustice l 

No — stretch a point to catch a piacx ; 
Abuse a brother to his bacif ; '" 
Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re, 
But point the rake thai taks the door : 
Be to the poor like onie whunsiane. 
And baud their noses to the grunsiane. 
Ply every art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile eracM 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd ^roao. 
And.damn a' parlies but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A sliady, sturdy, staunch believ«r. 

O ye wha leave the springs of C-/e-n, 
For guinlie dubs of your aindelv.bl 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror i 
When vengeance draws ihe sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping Aesow. 
^ust frets till Heav'n commicsicn gijt .<w < 
While o'er the /larp pale mis'ry moai.s. 
And strikes-the ever deep'ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier grcana I 

Your pardon, Sir, for tliis digrezaioa, 
I maist forgat my dedication; 
But when divinity cpmes cross me. 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vanour, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my work 1 did review. 
To dedicate them. Sir, to You : 
Because (ye need na takil ill) 
I thought them something likeyour**'. 

Then patronise them wi' your fawnui-j 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
1 had amaisl said, ever pray, 
But that's a word I neetl na say : 
Foi prayin I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o'l| 
But I'se repeal each poor man's/>ray'r, 
That kens or he^irs about you, Sir — 

" May ne'er misfornme's growni.{, ba' k. 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Vier/cl 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart. 
For that same gen'rous spirit smeu^t 1 
May K"*****'s far honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame. 

Till H** 'a, at least a dizen, 

Are frae their nuptial labours risen ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



55 



rtTe boncle lasiet roumf their table. 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king an;l country weel, 
By wonl. or pen, c- pouilsd steel ! 
May healtli and peace, with iniiiual ray*, 
fhiiie on the evening o' his ilays ; 
Till liis wee cm n« John's ieroe, 
When ebbing life nae inair shall (low, 
The last, sad, inoiiiuful riles bestow \" 

I will not wind a laiig conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion ; 
But whilst your wishes and endeavour* 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and tavoare, 
\ am, dear Sir, with zeal must fervent, 
Yonr much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent!) 
That iron-hearted carl, \i'ant. 
Attended in his grim advances. 
By sad mistakes, and black miscK-jicti, 
While hopes, and )oys, and jileasures fly hinif 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor I 
Bat by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n 1 
While recollection's pow'r is given, 
If, ia the vale of humble lite, 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, tr.ro' the tender gushing tear. 
Should recognize my master deir. 
If friendless, low, we meet together. 
Then, Sir. your hand — mjfrienu and brother I 



TO A LOUSE. 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET 
AT CHURCH. 

HA t whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie 1 
Your Impudence protects you sairly : 
I caiiua say but ye slrunt rarely, 

Ow re gauze and lace ; 
Tho' faith, I fetr ye dine but sparely 

Uu sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepia, blastit wonner. 
Detested, shunn'd bysauut an' sinner. 
Hum dare ye set your fit upon her, 

.Sae fine a lady ! 
' somewhere else and seeW >our dinner 
On some poor Dody. 

■ Swith, in some beggar's haffet sqnattle ; 
Where ye may creep, and svji aw., and sprattle 
Wi' ilher kindred, jurapin cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn er bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now hand ye there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils, sni'g an' tight ; 
N», faith ye yet.I ye'U no be right 

Till ve've got oul». 



The vera tapmua., tow'rinsr height 

O' Miss'gboimtt. 

My sooth ! risht b^nld ye set yoni roif mt, 
As plump and gi tij' as oi.ie grozet ; 

for some rank,ximrcuriet I'oset, 

ui ieil, rod inurtiaait, 

1 'd gie you sic a hearty ooze o't, 

Wad drets your djnddvun. 

I wad na been •nrurig'fl to spy 
You oil an aula vt.ie s tidineu toy ; 
Or aibliua some b'* di'f'ljie lw>y, 

fi..'(i wvliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine JLanardi .' lie, 

How dare ye do't I 

O Jenny, dinilk toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken wha: cursed speed 

I'ne blastie's matna 1 
Thae tairiks aadjinger-ejtds, I dread. 
Are notice takin I 

O wad some po<y'r the giffie gie ua 
I To see oursels as others see «s .' 
It wad Irae monip a blnniter free •!• 

iinatooiisn notion : 
Wl at airs in dress an' gait wad lea't utj 
And ev'n Devotien ! 



ADDRESS TO EPINBUKGll 



EDINA! Scoria's darling seat! 

All hail thy paiijes acJ to^'va. 
Where once berie^.h a inonarcli'* (ee» 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From maiking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs. 

As on the banks of Ayr 1 stray'd 
Andsii.ging, lont, .lc la.g'ring huur», 

1 shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



II. 



Here wealth still swells the golden tiJ», 

As busy trade his liil)0urs plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendor rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies. 

High wields her balance an;! her rod; 
There learni^g, with his eagle eyes. 

Seeks scieuce in her coy abode; 

III. 

Thy Sons, Edin« «>c'«' Vind, 
With open arms the 8trane;er hail ; 

Their views eniarg'd, tlieir lib'ral mind I 
Above the nai row, rural vaia ; 



54 



BURNS' POEMS. 



ilttentive still to sorrow's wail, 
ot luudcsi merits' aiient claim ; 

And never may their sources fail I 
Anil never envy bloi their name I 



Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn I 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet a,8 the Qewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair B strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine ] 
I see the sire of love on high, 

And own his woj-k indeed divine 1 



There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold vet'raii, gray in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar: 
The pond'rous walls and massy bar, 

Grira-rising o'er ihu rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war. 

And oft repeii'd the invader's shock. 



IrtTVth awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas I how chang'd the times to come 1 

Tneir royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race -vild-wand'ring roam I 

Tho' rigid law criss out, 'twas just I 



Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scolia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply mi/ sires have left Iheir shed. 
And fac'd gi-im danger's loudest roar. 

Bold following where i/our lathers leu I 



VIII. 

Edina I Scotia^ s darimgseat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a hionarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov 'reign pow'rs '. 
Frorn marking wildly-scatter'd flow'ra, 

As on the batiks of Ayr 1 stray" J, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

i shelter iu thy hunour'd shade. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK 



AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

APRIL 1st, 1785. 

WTTTLE briers and woodbines budding greent 
An' pailricksscraichin loud at e'en, 
An' morning poussie whiddin seen. 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown iVien', 

1 pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin, 
To ca' ihe cracK and weave our stockin ; 
And there was muckle fun an' jokm. 

Ye need ua doubt ; 
At length we had a harty yokin, 

At sang about. 



There was ae sang aiinang the rest, 
Aboon theii. t pleased me best. 
That soihe kind husband had adilrest 

To some sweet wife I 
It tliirl'd the heart strings thro' the breast, 
A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought describes sae Weel, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this *"' ''opc, or Steele, 

i">r iieatiie's wark 7" 
They tald me 'twas an e^ld kind chiel 

About Mutrkirlc. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to heui 't. 
And sae about him there I spier't 
Then a' thatken't him round declar'd 

He had ingine, 
Thd\ nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 
It was sae Ane. 

That set him to a pint of ale, 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' saugs he'd made hinisel, 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up ( gat, an' swoor an' aith, 
Tho' I should paw my pleugh and graith, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death. 

At some dyke-baeJt, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I cuuld spell, 
I to the craOT6o-_;'i7ig/e fall, 

Tho' rude an' rough. 
Yet crooning to a body's sel, 

Doei wcstleneugh. 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 
But }us\. a. rhymer, like, by chance. 
An' hae to learning nae pi etence, 

Yet, what the matter/ 



BURNS' POEMS. 



5d 



Vfhene'cr my muse does on me glance, 

Ijingle alher. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, " How can you e'er propose, 
you wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To make a sf.iig ?" 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye 're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
if honest nature made you fools. 

What aairs your grammars : 
Ve'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Orknappiu hammers. 

A set o' dull conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes t 
■They gang in stirks, and come out nsses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
Aa' Bvne they think to clii.b Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek. 

Gie me as spark o' Nature's fire, 
That's a' the learning 1 desire ; 
Then tho' i drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart. 
My musB, tho' hamely m attire, 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Allan's glee. 

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, 
Or bright inprmk's my friend to be. 

If I can hiiit 1 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If 1 could ret it. 

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, 1 b'lieve, are few. 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's irue. 

I'm on your list. 

1 winna blaw about mysel ; 
As ill I like my fauta to tell ; 

But fnends, and folk that wish me well, 

They somelimes roose me ; 
Tlio' I maun own, ae monie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae weefaut they whyles lay tc me, 
( like ihf lasses — Gude forgie me ! 
For mouie a plack tliey wheedle frae me. 

At dance or fair ; 
May be some ither thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 

But MauckHne race, or Muchline fair, 
■ shiiiild bo [jri'iiil lo m^el you there ; 
rt'c se gie ae night's discharge lo care, 

If we forgather, 
*.n' hao. £ swap o' rhymin-ware 

Wi' ane anithex. 



The four-gill chap, we'se gar himclatter, 
An'kirsen him wi' reekin water; 
Syne we'll sit down an' lak ourwhitter. 

To cheer our heart ; 
Au* faith we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

Awa, ye selfish warly race, 
Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 
Kv'n love an' friendship, snould give place 

To catch-the-placki 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear you crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose heart the tide of kindness warms, 
Who bold your being on the terms. 

Each aid the otherB* 
Come to my bowl, coi e lo my arms, 

My friends, my brothel 

But to conclude my lang epistle, 
As my auld pen's worn lo the ginssle 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle. 

Who am, most fervent. 
While I can either sing or whissle, 

Your friend and servaok 



TO THE SAME. 

APRIL 21st, i;85. 

WHILE new-ca'dkyerout at the stake, 
An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 
This hour on e'euiji's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-heaited, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Porjesket sair, with weary legs, 
Raithn' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amaug the naigs 

Their ten-hours' bita. 
My awkart muse sair pl<sads and begs 

I would na write. 
Thetapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
She's salt at best, and something lazy, 
Q,uo' she, "Ye ken, v^c've been sue hnsv. 

This month an' mair. 
That trouth my headis grown right dizzie 

An' something siur." 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 
" Conscience," says I, " ye thowless jad 1 
1 '11 write, an' that a hearty blaud. 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade. 

But rhyme it right. 

" Shall Dauld Lapraik^ the kiug -' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms so friendly 



58 



BURNS' POEMS. 



V»tye'fl neglect to ghaw your pf.riB, 

An' ibaiik him kindly !" 

Sae I gat paper m a Mink, 
An" down gaed stumpie in the iiilt i 
•Auolii I, " Before 1 sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll clnse it ; 
An' if ye winna caak it clink. 

By jove I'll prose it 1* 

*ae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
<n rhyme or prose, or bailh thegilher, 
Or fcome hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 
Let time rnak' proof ; 
but ( chall scribble down some blether 
Just clean aS'-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudSK an' carp, 
I'lio' fortune use you bard an' sharp ; 
^oine, kittle up your mooTland harp , 

Wi' gleesonie touch I 
Ne'er mind liow fortune waft an' warp : 
She's but a b-ich. 

She's gien me mouie ajirt an' fleg, 
6iu' 1 could stndille owre a rig ; 
But, by the L — d, tho' 1 Bhnuld beg 
Wi' lyari pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' slialce my lee. 
As lang's 1 dow 1 

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer 
I've seen the bud upo' the timraer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to yev : 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

/, Rob, (an here. 

Do ye euvy the city Gent, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklenl. 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent^ 

And niuckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to reoreaent 

A Bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paiighty feudal Thane, 
Wi' rulH'd sark an' glancin*, .ane, 
Wha thinks liimsel nae sheep shank bane. 

But lordly stalkb. 
While caps and bonnets atTare la'en. 

As by he walks ? 

" O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift. 
Then turn me, if T/u>u please, adrift. 

Thro' Scotland wide; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna siiUt, 

In a' their pride 1" 

Were this the charter of oijr stale, 
" On pain o' hell be rich an' great," 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
Bnt, thanks to Heav'a I that's no the gat« 
V\'e learn r ir creed. 



For thus. the I'cyal mandate riui, 
When first the human race Vkhiu 
" The social, friendly, honest uiuai, 

Whttte'erhe u«, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's piun. 

An' none uui /te ;-• 

O mandate clorious and divine 1 
The ragged followers of the Nine, 
Poor, thoaghtleaa devils ! yet roavsnine 

In elorioug light. 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 

Are dark as niuhi- 

Tho' here they scrape, an' saueeza. »n' groT»l, 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howi, 

The forest's fright ; 
Or In some day-detesting owl 

May shun the Vebu 

Then may Laprailc and Bums arise, 
To reach their native, kindred sxies, 
And sing their pleasures, ho|iei>, an' joya 
In some mild sphere 
Still closer knit in friendship's lie 

-Each passing year. 



TO W. S ♦ * ♦ ♦ * !,, 

OCHILTREE. 



Ala;,178». 



I CrAT your letter, wmsome TViV/ie : 
Wi' graiefu' heart 1 thank you Dntw^ie ; 
Tho' 1 maun say 't I wad be silly. 
An' unco vam. 
Should I believe my coaxin' billie. 

Your flalterin strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant It, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelin's sklented 

On my poor MtiEie ; 
Tho' in sic phrasin' terms ye've ))enn'<I K 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel 
Should I but dare a hope to speel 
Wi'^ZZenorwi' Gilbertfield, 

The Draeb o' fame ; 
Or FergiLSSun, the writer-chiel 

A deatnieso name. 

(O Fergusson! thy glorious paria 
111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! 
My curse upon your wliunsiane hearts, 

Ve Enurugh Gentry f 
The tytbe o' what ye waste at carte«. 

Wad btoWa ms Daitrv ') 

I 'Vet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasseb gie ray heart a screed, 



BURNS' POExMS. 



57 



4* whyle* tlieyVe like to be my dcec, 
(O sad disease !) 

I Idtue ap my niHie retd ; 

It gies me tase. 

Aa\A Coila now may iidgp fu' fain, 
She's gotten Poets o' her ain, 
Chiels wba their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought ber worth his while. 
To set her name iu measur'd style ; 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Br whare wild-meeting oceans Ijoil 

Bes;!ut^ Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson 
.ed Fortfi an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrov) an' Tweed to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
tVhile Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 
Nae body sings. 

Th' missus, Tiber, Triames, a.n' Seine, 
Trlide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! 
But Willie, set your fiito mine, 

An cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams and burnies sliine 
Up wi' the best. 

We'll singauld Collars plains an' fells. 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells. 

Where glorious yVallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

. Frae southron billies. 

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace^ side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod. 

Or glorious dy'd. ' 

O, Sweet are Coila^s haughs an' woods. 
When lintwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 

With wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms for me 
VVheii winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
t)r frosts on hius of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Or blinding drifts wild furious nee, 

Daik'ning the day ! 

O Nature! a' thy shows an' forms 
•"o f(>t..ing, pensive nearls nae cnarms i 
Wlietlier the simmer kinoiy warms, 

Wi' lifc,n'UfflU, 

Ur 9inter ni>wis. in s.".mT storrns. 

Tbelaui;,darkaigfatl 



The Muse, nae poet ever fnnd her, 
Till by himsel, he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meamier, 

An^ no think lunjt : 
sweet! to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang I 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouther, juiidie, stretch, an' strive 
Let me fair Nature's face deserve, 

And I, wi' pleasure. 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 
Bum owre their 



Fareweel, " my rhyme-composing brirher I 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd toi'her: 
Now let us lay our heads ihegither. 

In love I'raterual ; 
May Envy wallop in a tetlier, 

Black fiend, infcruaJ t 

WTiile highlandmen hate tolls and taxes ; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies J 
While terra firma, on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count cu a friend, in faith an' practice, 

In Robert Bums. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

MY memory's no worth a preen ; 
I had amaist forgotten clean, 
Ye bade me write you what they mean 
By this New-Light,' 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 
Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callan 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
Tney took nae pains their speech to balance. 

Or rules to gie ! 
Butspak their thoughts in plain, braid laliana. 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the Tnoon, 
Just like a sat k, or ])air n' shoun 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing 
An' shortly after she was done. 

They gat a new ouw. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 
ft ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it. 
Till chiels gal up an' wad confute it. 

An' ca'd it wrang; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad Ihieap auld folk the thing nusleuk ; 



C 2 



' See note, page IS. 



58 



BURNS' POEMS. 



for 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 
An out o' sight, 

In' backlins-comin, to the leuk, 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; 
The herds an' hissels were alarra'd : 
The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddiea 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours a.n' nicks ; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an' burnt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
Tiiatfaitli the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
The lairds forbade, by strict cuminands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin"d stick-an'-stowe, 
Till now amaisl on ev'ry kuowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
An' some, their new-light fair avow, 

'■ Just quite baiefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld-light , flocks are bleatin ; 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatiu ; 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin 

Wi' girnin spite, 
To hear the jnoore sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
fiome auld-ligkl herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in Uiiugs they ca' balloons, 

To lak a ftight, 
Aa' stay a month amang the moons 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them, 
An' when the auld moon's gaun toiea'e them, 
The hind aost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them 

]usv i' their pouch. 
An' when the new-light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch I 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 
Is naething but a " moonshine matter ;" 
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we bardies ken senxe belter 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPISTLE TO J, R+*+*** 

EXCLOSING SOME POEMS. 
O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted, R** — , 
The wale o' cocks for fun an' driukia 



There's mony godly folks arethinkin, 

Your dreams' an' tricks 

Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin. 

Straight to auld Nick's. 

Ye hae sae monie cracks &n' cants, 
And in your wicked drunken rants. 
Ye mak a devii o' the saunts. 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flawE, an Wdiits. 

Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it I 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it 
Spare 't for their sakes wha a*"ten wear it. 

The lads in blackj 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it. 

Rives 't aff their hack. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing. 
Us just the blue-gown badge an' cUilhing 
O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken Ihem by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you home some rhyming ware, 
A' that 1 bargain'd for an' mair ; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spar«, 

I will expect 
Yon *an^,t ye'll sen't wi'cannie care. 

And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I tos'ng.' 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wmg 1 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, 

An' danc'dmy fill 1 
I'd better gane an' sair'd the kins;. 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately in my fun, 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun. 
An' brought a.paitrick to the grim, 

A buniiie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begiui. 

Thought nane wad sen. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt : 
I straikel it a wee for sport. 
Ne'er thiukm they wad fash me for'* ; 

U:it, deil-ma-care ! 
Somebody tells iht poacher-cmo-t 

The bile .sfi'air. 

Some au'd us'd hands had ta'eu a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the jijul : 

1 scorn'd to iie 
So gat the whissle o' my groat. 

An' pay't the fee. 

* A certain humorotip rfream of n:s was then njakinS 
a noise in the couiivrj suit. 

t A song he had prorrlsed the Aullior 



BURNS' POEMS. 



59 



But, by my giin o' guns the waie, 
An' by my pouther an' my bail, 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I row an' swear ! 
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, 

For this, niest year. 



As Boon's the clockin-time is by, 
An' the wee pojio oegun to cry, 
L— d, J'bc hae sportm by and oy. 

Kor my gowd guinea : 
Tho' 1 shoflil herd the buckskin kye 

For'i in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame 1 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb. 
But twa-three draps about the wame 

Scarce inro' the feathers ; 
An* baitb a yellow George to claim 

An' Ihole their blethers ! 

It pits me ay m mad's a hare ; 
So 1 can rhyme nor write nae mair : 
Bm pennywort/is again is fair, 

When time's expedient: 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your IS ret obedient. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN,* 

A BALLAD 
I. 

THERE were three kings into the east, 
Three kings boih great and high. 

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 



IL 



They took a plough and plough'd him down, 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they hae pwirn a solemn oath 

John Barlevcorii was dead. 



III. 

f 

But the cheerful spring came kindly o» 

And show'rs began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again. 

And sore surprised thecr. all. 

IV. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 
And he grew thick and strong. 

His nead weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 
That no one should him wrong. 



• This is partly composed on the plan of an old song 'Twill -nake a man forget his wo J 
known by tbeaame ubma. 'Twill heiglitenall t>» -y i 



V. 

The sober autumn enter'd mild, 
When he grew wan and pale ; 

His bcndingjoirus and drooping hoa j 
Show'd he began to fail. 

VI. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage 

VII. 

They've ta'en a weajjon lung and shar]:. 

And cm him by the knee ; 
Then ty'd hirn fast ujion a cart, 

LiKe a rogue 'orfr-gerie. 

Vlll. 

They laid him down upon his back. 

And cudgell'd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before thestorjn 

And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

IX. 

They fill'd np a darksome pit 

With water to the brim. 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 



They laid him out upon the floor, 
To work hi.n farther wo, * 

And still as sign of life appear'd. 
They toss'd him to and fro. 

XI. 

They wasted, o'er a scorching flam 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of al' 

For he crush'd him between two BtoEA* 

XII. 

And they tiae ta'en his rery heart's dlood. 
And drank i< round and round ; 

And still tne more and more they draac, 
Their joy did more abound. 

XIII. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blond, 

'Twill make your courage »i»e. 

XIV. 



€0 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 
Tho' the tear were iii her eye. 

XV. 

Then let us taast i-i »r, barleycorn, 

Each ini\u a glass in hand j 
And may hie great pojterity 

N e'er I'ail iu old Scuilaud I 



A FRAGMENT. 

Tune—" Gillicrojikte,'* 

I. 

WHEN Guilford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm ihraw, man, 
Ae nighl, at tea, began a plea, 

Wuiiia America, man : 
The:i up they gat '.he masltin-pat. 

And iu the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in full congress. 

Than quite ret'uae our law, man. 

II. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

1 wat he wa^Jia slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie^s burn he took a turn. 

And Carleton did ca', man ; 
But yet, what reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, bclure his band, 

Amaug his eu'mies a', man. 

• IU 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage 

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 
Till Willie Howe look o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword an' gun he •hought a sin 

Giiid chriaiian blood to draw, man ; 
But at Neio-Vork, wi' knife an' fork, 

Sir-\oin be hacked sma', man. 

IV. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 

Till FrnseT brave did ta', man | 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga sfc.a.'A , man, 
Comwallis fought as lang's he dcnght, 

An' did the buckskins idaw, man ; 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, 

He hung it to the wa', man, 

V. 

Then Montague, aji' Guilford too. 

Began to fear a fa', ir.an ; 
\nd Sackville donre, wha stood the stoure, 

I'fte German chief to ;hraw, man : 



For Paddy Bur«e, like ony Tcrk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man j 
And Charlie Fox threw by the hox,. 

An' lows'dhis tinkler jaw mau. 

Vl. 

Then Rockingham took up ih^ game ; 

Till death did on him ca', niaii ; 
VV!isn-SAe/6u;?je meek li>;ld up his cheeK, 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

They did his meas.n-es thraw, man. 
For North an' Pox united stocks, 

An' bore him to the wa', man. 



Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's carte* 

He swe|>t the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian rait. 

Led him. a sa.ir faux pas , man : 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. 

On Chatham's 6oy.did ca',man ; 
An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', mau 1' 

VITI. 

Behind the throne 'hen Grenrile's gone. 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Duruias arous'd (he class 

Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly gi-aith, 

(Inspired bardies saw man) 
Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, " Willie, ri:e ! 

Would 1 hae fear'd them a', mau ?" 

IX. 

But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co. 

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man. 
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone. 

All' did her whittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' bloo<i 

To make it guld in law man. 

***** 



SONO. 

Tune—" Com rigs art h^ynm*.' 

I. 

IT was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie. 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie ; 
The time flew by wi' tentless h?ed, 

rUi 'tween the late and early ; 



BUK^'S' POEMS. 



6t 



WJ tnia perTua«ion8 she agreed, 
"l , tee me lhr<>' vhe barley. 



11. 



Tne ikyw-vi V'l- '.hs win'3 was still, 

'i'lie wuou was ahiiiiiig clearly ; 
I sel her [l"Wii, wi' right good will, 

Amaiig theriiiso" bxrley : 
I keii'l her heart was a" my ain ; 

1 iov'a ner iimst sincerely ; 
I kiss'd lier owre aud owre again 

Amaug tl>(j rigs o' bariey. 

III. 

\ lock'fl her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright. 

That shone that hour so clearly 
She ay sha'il bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs c' barley. 

IV. 

I nae '^een b'.ytha -wi' comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry driukm ; 
I h^e been joyfu' gaihrin gear J 

I hae beer, happy ihiuldn : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly, 
That hajjpy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CHORUS. 

Com rzes, mi' barley rigs, 
An ' com rigs are bonnie ; 
rii Hs'er forget thai kappy night. 
Among tha rigs wi' Annie. 



SONG. 



COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 



Tune—" Ihad a i 



' I hadnaemair. 



Now westhn winds, and slanght'ring guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

A.mang the blooming heather ; 
Now waviiia grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
Antthe moon shines briglil, when I rove at 

To lause upon my charmer. 



II. 



The partridge loves the fruitful fella ; 
The plover loves theinountains ; 



The woodcock haunts the lonely della 
The soaring hern the fountains . 

Thro' lolly gi'oves the chnaha; rove*, 
Th- iMth of man to shur. it ; 

The hazel bush o'erhangs the tlirushj 
TIte spreading thuru ilie linnet. 

in. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure ftnd, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social joy, and leagues combine ; ■ 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman' joy, the murd'ring cry. 

The liutt'ring gory pinion 1 

IV. 

But Peg'gy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is olue, the fields in view, 

All lading-green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

Aud every happy creature. 

V. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

'J'ill the silent moon shiue clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy wais:, and, fondly presl, 

Swear how 1 love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow 're, 

Not autumn to the farmer. 
So dear can be as thou to me. 

My fair, my lovely charmer I 



SONG. 

TUNE—" My Nannie, O." 
I. 

BEHIND you hills where Lugar* tovr; 

'Mang moors and mosses .-nany, O, 
The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 

And I'll awa' to Nannie, O. 

II. 

The westlin wind blawsloud an' shrill j 
The night's baith mairk »u' rainy, u ; 

But I'll get my plant, an' out I'll siea^. 
An' owre the hills to Nanaie, O. 

HI. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, ac' youn 
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye,. O : 



Originally, Stii 



62 



BURNS' POEMS. 



May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 

IV. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
A8 spotless as she's boniiie, O : 

The op'uitig gowan, wet wi' dew, 
Kae purer is thun Nannie, O. 



A country lad is my degree, 

An' tew there be ih^lKea me, O ; 

But what care t how few tliey be, 
I'm welcome ay to Nannie, O. 

VI, 

My riches a' 's my penny-fee. 
An' 1 maun guide it caniiie, O ; 

But warl'g gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thuughu are a' my Naume, O. 

VII. 

Our auld Giiidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonuie, O ; 

Bai I'm as blythe that bauds his pleugh, 
An' haa uae^are but Nannie, 0. 

VI u 

Come weel,^ come wo, I care na by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' nu, D 

Nae ilber care in life have 1, 
But live, an love my Ususrls O. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 
CHORUS. 



Green grow the rashes, O ! 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend. 

Are spent amang the lasses, O I 



I. 



THERE'S nought but care on ev'ry han', 

In ev'ry hour that passes, ; 
What sisnUies the life o' man, 
Au' 'twere ua for the lasses, O, 

Green grow, S^c, 

II. 

The warly race may riches chase, 
An' riches siiil may fly them, O ; 

An' iho' at last they catch them fast. 
Their hearu can ne'er enjoy them, O. 

Green grow, SfC. 



III. 

Butgieme a canny hour at e'ti.. 

My arms about my dearie, U ; 
An' warly cares, an' warly men, 

May a' gae tapsalleerie, O ! 

Green ^rj*. 4 *. 

IV. 

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye'er nought but senseless asses, O j 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw. 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 

Green grow, tfe. 



Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest worksite classes, O : 

Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man. 
An' then she made the lasses, O. 



Greer* grow, Ife 



TUNE—" Jockey's Grey Breekj 
I. 

AGAIN rejoicing nature sees 
Her robe assume us ven.al hues. 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze. 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

CHORUS.* 

Andmmtn I stillon Meniet doix 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e! 

For us jet black, an' it's like a hawk, 
ArC it winna let a body be I 

II. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw. 
In vain to me the vi'lels spring ; 

Inva.n to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and thelintwhite sing. 
Andi 



1 tttu, 4 



III. 



The merrv plougiiboy cheers his team, 

Wi' joy tne ter.-.ie seedansin, siaiki. 
But life to me 's a weary dream, 

A dream of ane that never wauks. 

And maun I still, ^c. 

* This chorus is part of a song composed by a pea- 
tleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the au- 
thor's. 

t Menie is the common abbreriatwii of 



BURNS' POEMS 



«.» 



IV. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the duckling cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I, 

And maun I still, If c. 



The sheep-herd sleeks his fauIJing slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles shill, 

VVr wild, unequal, wandring step 
1 met him on the dewy hill. 

Arid maun I still, !(« 

VI. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark. 

Ulythe waukensbythe daisy's side. 
And mounts and signs on flittering wings, 

A wo-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

And maun I still, Sfc. 

VII. 

Come, "Wmter, with thine angry howl, 
And raiging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe Tny cheerless soul. 
When nature all is sad like me ! 

CHORUS. 

And maun I still on Menie doat. 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e I 

Fur it's jet black, an' it's like a hawk. 
An' it winna let a body be,'' 



SONG. 



TUNE_«« Roalin Castle.' 



I. 



THE gloomy nighty is gath'ring fast. 
Load roars the wild inconstant blast. 
You murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it di-iving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the ryioor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
Wnile here I wander, prest with care. 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 



* Wp cannot presume to alter any of the poems of 
our ban'', and more especially those printed under his 
own direction ; ye^ it is to be regretted that this chorus, 
wiiich is not of his own composition, should be attached 
to these hue stanzas, as it perpetually interrupts the 
Uain of senliiueut which they excite. E. 



II. 

The Autumn mourns her rip'ningcom 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky. 
She sees the scowling tempest fly j 
Chill runs my blood to hear it ra\e, 
I think upon the stormy wave. 
Where many a danger 1 must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

III. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore , 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks oi Ayr, 

IV. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales. 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
f-ursuing t-ast, uniiappy loves 1 
fc arewell, my friends ! Farewell, my foe»i 
My peace with these, my love with tiio » > ■ 
The bursting tears my heart declare. 
Farewell the bouuie banks of Ayr. 



SONG. 

TUNE-" Gialderoy." 
I. 

FROM thee Eliza, I must go. 

And from my native shore : 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 

Between my love and me. 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 

II. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear. 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 
But the last throb that leaves my heart. 

While death stands victor bv. 
That throb, Eliza, is thy pan, | 

And thine the latest sigh 1 



BURNS' POI MS. 



THE FAREWELL 

TO THE 
BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES's LODGE 

TARbOLTON. 

TUNE—" Goodnight, and joy be wi' you a' !" 

I. 

AI>IEU,a heart-warm, fond adieu! 

Dear broihers of the mystic tye I 
Ye favour'd, ye enliglUeri'd few, 

Companions of my social joy 1 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

1 u-suing Fortune's slidd'ry ba' 
Willi melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'li miuu you still, tho' far awa'. 

II. 

Oft have 1 met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft, honour'd with supreme command, 

1-resiiled o'er the sons of light ; 
And by iUulI hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsinen ever saw t 
blrong mera'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa.' 

III. 

May freedom, harmony, and love. 

Unite us in the grand design, 
Beneath ih' omniscient eye above, 

The glorious architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line. 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 

IV. 

And you farewell ! whose merits claim, 

J ustly , that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To Masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
Cine round, 1 ask it with a tear, 

To hira, the Bard that's far awa. 



SONG. 



TUN£ — " Prepare, lo" dear brethren, to the Tavern 
le-.'s fly." 



^o cnurchman am I for to rail aTid to write. 
No atalesnmn nor soldier »o plot or to Agbt, 



No »ly man of business contriving a (uare. 
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my cart. 

11. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 



III. 



Here passes the squire on his brother — hin horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit, with his pane ; 
But see you the Crow?iho\v it waves in the air, 
There, a big-belly'd bottle still eases ray care. 

IV. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomrn proved it fair, 
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. 



V. 



I once wag persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; 
But.the pursy old landlord just waddled up stair*, 
With aglorious bottle that ended my cares. 



VI. 



" Life's cares they are comforts,"* — a maxim laid 

down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the blact 

gown ; 
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of care. 

A Stanza added in a Mascn Lodge. 

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the comprss and square 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care. 

WRITTEN IN 

FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ON NITH-SIDE. 

THOU whom chance may hither lead, — 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour. 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance. 
Beneath thy moniing star advance, 

* Young's Night Thoughts. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



65 



[■■leasure with her siren air 
May liL-luiie llie thougliiless pair ; 
Lei prudence bless enjoymenl'a cup, 
Tlien rap'.ur"(l sip, and aip it up. 

Aa thy day grows warm and high, 
I, He's .neridian flaming nigh, 
Dostihou spurn the humble vale? 
Life's proud summit wouldst iliou scale? 
Check bhy climliing step, elate, 
Evils lurlf in telon wait ; 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. 
Soar around each clifly hold. 
While cheerful peace, with liimetsong, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'uing close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On ali thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought ; 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fae, 
la not. Art thou so high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind. 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, lobe just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways. 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thusresign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence sjiuu shalt ne'er awake. 
Night, where dawn shall never break. 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and Jov the good restore. 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide I 
Q.uoih the beadsman of N th-side. 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OP 

MRS. OF . 

DWELLER in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
Who in widow-weeds appears. 
Laden with unhonour'd years, 
Nuosiiit! with care a bursting [lurse, 
Bailed -.viih mtiny a deadly curie ! 



STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace I 
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 
Fity's flood there never rose. 
See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to gave. 
Hands that took — hut never gave. 
Keeperof Mammon's iron chest 
Lo, there she goes, unpilied and unblen' 
She goes, but not to realms of everla&iing r<Ht I 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyea, 
(A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) 
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither benda.) 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 
'Tisthy trusty quondammate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 

EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail, 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year f 

In other worlds can Mammon lail, 
Ormiipoient as he is here ? 
0, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bie'. 
While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ' 

The cave-Iodg'd beggar, with a conscience cicbr. 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



ELEGY 



Capt. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE hATb.NT 

FOR HIS HONOQRS IMMEDIATELY 

FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 

But now his radient course is run, 
For Mathew's course was bright , 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, Heav'nly Light I 

O DEATH ! thou tyrant fell and bloody I 
The nieikle devil wi' a wuuclie 
Haurl thee hame lo his black smiddie. 

O'er liurcheon hide*, 
And like stock-fish come o'er nis studiUe 

Wi' thy auld aidea i 

He's gane, he's gaen ! he's frae ua t«ro. 
The ae best fellow e'er was horn ! 
Thee, Matthew, nature's sel shall mourn 

By wood and wild. 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd 



60 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Ve hills, near iieebors o' the atarns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers. 

Moiir.i, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Yt liaz'ily shaws and briery dens ! 
"i^e ijurus, wliimplm down your glens, 

Wi' toddlia Jin, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty slens, 

Frae lia to lin. 

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Y e stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonniiie, 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at Ins head. 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

1' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins wliiddln thro' llic glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a cl id ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring pairick brood ; 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sr jty coots, and speckled teals, 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quaamire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mangnelds o' flow'ring clover gav ; 
Aud when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tellthae far warlds, wha lies in clay. 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
!n some aiild tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What lime the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 

Seis up her horn. 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrile morn 1 

O rivers, torests, htlls, and plains ! 
Oil have ye lieurd my canty sifiiins : 
Hut now, what else for me remains 

But tales of wo ; 
And frae my een the tlrapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

M'-'urn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
i!k cowslip cup shall keep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, w'hile each corny sjjear 

Shogts up iti head. 



Thy gay, green flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that'* dead I 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy swallow mantle tear! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've loit 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
Aud you, ye twinkling sfarnies bright, 

My Matthew muurn 1 
For thro' your orbs he's la'eu his tiighl. 
Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ; the man ! the brother I 
And art thou gone, aud gone for ever ! 
And hast thou crosl that unknown river. 

Life's dreary bound I 
Like thee where shall I find another, 

The world arowna i 

Go to yoursculptur'd tombs, ye great. 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by the honest turf I'll wait, 

Thoumanofwortk 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earti. 



THE EPITAPH. 

STOP, passenger ! my story's brief ; 

And truth 1 shall relate, man ; 
I tell nae common tale o' grief. 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast. 
Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; 

A look of pity hither cast. 
For Mattliew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodser art, 

Thatpassesl by this grave, man, 
There moulders here agallan* heart ; 

For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and way», 
Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 

Ffere lies wha weel had won thy praiie, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa,' 
For Matthew was a kind man ! 

If thou art staunch without a staio, 
Like the unchanging blue, mau ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain. 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast vni, and fun, «nd lire 
Aud ne'er guid wine did iiut, wuut ; 



BIRNS' POEMS, 



67 



k 



Thi» was thy hillie, dam, and sire, 
For Alailhew was a queer man. 

If ony whi^gish whiiuinsot, 

'I o o;anie piinr Miiiiliew dare inan 
M.ty ri>!(\l Hint sorrow be his lot, 

i'or Matiuew was a rare man. 



LAMENT 

OF 

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

N.^w nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
Antl spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now I hoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

Ami glads the azure skies ; 
B ji nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast iu durance lies. 

N(<w lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r 

Makes woodland echoes rhig ; 
The mavis mild, wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
111 love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn 's budding in the glen. 

And milk-white is the slae ; 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the (Aueen of a' Scotland, 

Maun he in prison Strang. 

I was the dueen o' bonnie France, 

IVhere happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn. 

As blythe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet liere I lie in foreign bands, 

And never ending care. 



Bui as for thee, thou fake woman, 

My bister and my fae. 
Grim vengeance, yet shall whet a sword 

That thio" thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

"Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of wo 

Frae woaMUi's pHying e'e. 



My son ! my son ! may kinder star* 
L,'>.i>n i'uy fwnuue ehlu» . 



And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend. 

Remember him for me ! 

O ! soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autu mn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring. 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq., 

OF FINTRA. 

LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg. 
About to beg a.pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejecttd, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripjile'srest :) 
Will generous Graham list to his ''oef 's wail ? 
(It soothes poor misery, heark'ning to her tale,) 
And hear him curse the lisht he first survey'd. 
And doubly curse the lickless rhyming trade ? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I compla.n. 
The lion and I'he bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground ; 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious guards his cell.— 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, dtrour. 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug. 
The priest andhedgehogin their robes are snug. 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard. 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child— the Bard 1 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half a idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; 
No claws tc dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn ; 
No nerves olfact'ry. Mammon's trusty cur 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, 
In naked feeling, and in aching prule, 
he bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side : 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
And scorpion critics careless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame . 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 
By blocluieadi' daring into aiaduKt* »uiiig; 



68 



BURNS' POEMS 



His well-Mvon bays, than life itself more dear, 
By uiiscreaius torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear : 
Foil'd, bletdin^, toriur'd.inthe unequal strife 
The hapless poet flounders on thro' life. 

ill fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 
He hueds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage I 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceaa'd, 
•• half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast : 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

duluess I portion of the truly bleat 1 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the tierce extremes 
or fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder " some folks" do not starve. 
The grave, sage hern tlius easy picks his frog. 
And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude that" fools are fortune's care." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks. 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not 80 the i^le muses' mad-cap train, 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain : 
In equanimity they never dwell. 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear 1 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencaim, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears. 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 

O ' hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r 
f intra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Tliro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath. 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! 



LAMENT 

FOR 

JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

THE wind blew hollow frae the hills. 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream ; 
Beneath acraigy steep, a bard, 

Ladfcn with years and meikle fiain. 



In loud lament hewaii'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik. 

Whose trunk was mould 'ring down witL yean 
His locks were bleached white w.' timet 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp. 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang. 
The winds, lamentuigthro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'U charm the ear and e'e ; 
Butnotcht in all re -solving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am.a bending aged tree 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast. 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exajt my bloom ; 
But [ maun lie before the storm. 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger groivn ; 
I wander in the ways of men. 

Alike unknowing and unknown ; 
Unheard, unpilied, unreliev'd,. 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust. 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

" And last (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay : 
In weary being now I pine. 

For a' the life of life is dead. 
And hope has left my aged ken. 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp I 

The voice of wo and wild despair ; 
Awake, resound thy latest lay. 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend 

Tliat fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this triliute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom 

"In poverty's low, barren vale. 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me ro'tud ; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in liquid air. 
The friendless bard and rustic song. 

Became alike tb^ fostering cafe. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



69 



••O ! why hag worCh so short a date? 

While villains ripen gray with time I 
Musv thou, the aoble, gen'rous, gi-ea.t, 

Pall in bold manhood's hardy orime 1 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of wo! 
O ! had 1 met theinortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

•' The bridegroom may forget the bride 
Was niaue his wedded wife yestreen ; 

The monarch may forget the crown 
I'hat on his head an hour has beeu ; 

The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 

But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 
Aud a' that thou hast doue for me 1" 



LINES SENT 

TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, 

OF WHITEFOORD, BART., 

WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

THOU, who thy honour as thy Godrever'st, 

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly 

fear'st. 
To thee this votive offering I impart. 
The tearfu' tribute of a brolten heart. 
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 
Aud tread the dreary path to that dark world 

unknown. 



TAM 0' SHANTER. 
A TALE. 

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis is this Buke. 

GAWIN DOUGLAS. 

WHEN chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to take the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' gettin fou aud unco happy. 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Where sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanler, 
kt he frae Ayr, ae night did canter, 



(Auld Ayr whom ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and boimy laspes ) 

O Tarn! had'st thou but been sae wiss, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ; 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skel' 
A blethering, blustering, drunk beil 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was uae sober. 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
'I'liou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gal roaring fou on, 
That at the L— d's house, ev'n on SunOA). 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Mocda-y. 
She prophesy'd, that late or soon. 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Etoom ; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
ByAlloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me ?reet, 
To think how mony coimsels svi^eet 
How mony lengihen'd sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night 
Tarn had got planted unco right; 
Fast by an ingle, bleeziiig finely 
Wi' reamuig swats, that drank divinely J 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tarn io'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangsan' clatter $ 
And ay the ale wa^ growing better: 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious ; 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious : 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 



Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure! 
Kings may be blest, but Ta/Ti was glorious; 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 



But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts lor ever ; 
Or like the borealis race. 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm, — 
Nae man can tether time or tide. 
The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-8itti.e. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in. 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroaii in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blaw n its last ; 
The rattlingshuw'rs rose on the blast ; 



70 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Tne Rpeedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loiiil, deep and lang the thunder bellow'd : 
That night, a cliild might >mderstand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

AVeel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
A belter never hfted leg, 
7V/,)/i skil|iii on thro' dub and mire, 
Diispising wind, and rain and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet : 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet | 
Wliiles glow'riiig ro::ndwi' prudent cares, 
Lest bojles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Al/oioaywi-s drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaisis and houlets nightly cry.— 

By this timp he was cross the ford, 
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past th^ birks and meikle stane. 
Where drunken Charlie hrak 's neck bane ; 
Ai\i\ thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aljoon the well, 
Where Mango's milher nang'd hersel. — 
Before him Dnon pours all his floods ; 
The diiubliug slorm roars thro' the woods ! 
The lightning flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, slimmerins thro' the groaning trees, 
K''r':-Al/oway seemM in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded minli and dancing.— 

Inspiring hold John Barleycorn ! 
Wbai dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tlppenny, we fear nae evil ; 



W 



is(]ualiae we'll fp.ce the devil 



The swats sae ream'd in Tnmm.ie''s noddle, 
Fair |ilay, he car'd ua deils a boddle. 
But Magsie stood risht sairastoiiish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand arlmonish'd, 
She venlur'd forward on the liaht ; 
And, vow! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nau coiillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
hut life an mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There sat anld \ick, in shape o' beast ; 
A towr.ie tyke, black, erim, and large. 
To gie them music was his charse : 
He serew'd the pijies and sart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— 
Colfnis stood round like open presses. 
Thai shaw'd the dead in ilieir last dresses ; 
And by some devilisli cantraip slight, 
Kach in its car^d baud held a light,— 
By which heroic Tani was able 
To note unon the haly table, 
A murcierer s oanes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchrislen'd bairos ; 
A thief, new cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
k garter, which a babe had strangled ; 



A knife, a father's throat had mangted, 

Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o'horrible and awfn'. 
Which ev'ii to name wad be uidawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and ciinous, 
The mirth and fini grew fast and furious. 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 
And coost her duddies to the wark. 
And linket at it in her sark I 

Now Tam O Tarn ! had they bee"! qticans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks instead o' creeshle flannen. 
Been snaw-white seventeen bonder linen 1 
These breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
That ance were i)lush, o' suid blue liair, 
1 wad hae gi'en them aff my hunlies, 
Forae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, anld and droll, 
Risrwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder dhma turn thy stomach. 

But TTi/nkenn'd what was what fn' bravaCi 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night inlisted in the core, 
(Tjang after kenn'd on Cmrjci- shore I 
For mony a beast to dead she shot. 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat. 
And shook haith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear,) 
Her cutiie sark, o' I aisly harn. 
That while a lassie she had worn, x 

In longitude tlio' sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she whs vanntie.— 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy revciend grannie. 
That sark shecoft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa puiiJ Scots ('twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how iVcOTTiie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang) 
And how Tam stood, like ane Vewitch'd, 
And thought his very e'en eurich'd : 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain. 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Toni tint his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, " Weeltlone, Cutty sark!" 
And in an instant all was <lark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

Asbeesbizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke. 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When, pop I she starts before tneir nose ; 

j As eager runs the market-crowd. 

' VViien, " Catch the thief!'' rewound* aluud ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



71 



tfc Maezie niDB, the witches foUow, 
W'l' moay \a eldritch skreech aud halloo 

AL Tam! ah, Tarn! thou'Il set thy fairicl 
[n hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vahi thy Kale awaits thy comiii ! 
K'lte Si/oa will be a wofii' woman ! 
New. dc ihy speedy utmost, Me.s, 
And win the key-staiie' of the brig; 
Thfire at tliem thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare ua cross. 
Dm ere the key-stane she could make, 
The rient a tail she had to shake ! 
Kor Nannie, far before the rest, 
ilard upon noble Mre^l'ie prest, 
And fltw at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Masgie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left bebuid her aiu gray tail : 
The carlin claught lier by the rump. 
And left poor Mags^e scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed ; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember Tamo' S/ianier's mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE 
LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SLOT AT. 

INHUMAN man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad t.iy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field. 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains. 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Keek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless 
fate. 



* tt is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil 
ipirits. have no power to follow a poor wight any far- 
ther than the middle of the next running stream. — It 
may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted 
traveller, that w'.ien he falls in with bogles., whatever 
danger n.ay be in his going forward, there is much 
more haiani in turning hack. 



TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON. 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROX- 
BURGHSHIRE, WITH CAYS. 

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood. 

Unfolds her tender mantle green, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood 

Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer with a matron grace 

Retreats to Dayburgh's cooling shade, 
Yet oft, delighted, stops, to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade ; 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self-appioving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow Cows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows; 

So long, sweet Poet of the .vear, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well has woi»; 
WJile Scotia, with exuliirig tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



EPITAPHS, 
&c. 

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 

HERE souter **** in death does sleep ; 

To h-11, if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

He'll baud it weel thegither. 

ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin b-tch, 

Into thy dark dominion I 



ON V, EE JOHNIB. 
Hie jacet wee Johnie. 



WHOE'ER thou art, O reader, kno«r, 
That death has mur.lsr'd Johuie 1 



72 



BURNS' rOFMS. 



An' here hl» body Hes fu' low- 
For gaui he ne'er had on v. 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Dniw near with pious rev'rence and attend I 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 

The lender father, arid the gen'rous friend, 
The pitying hpart that felt for human wo ; 

The dauntless heart that feared no human pride : 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

" Forev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."* 



FOR R. A. ESa. 

Know thon, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name; 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
Awariner bean death ne'er made cold. 



FOR G. H. ESQ,. 

R DOor man weeps— here G n sleeps, 

Whom can tine wretches blam'd ; 

with such as he, wher 'er he be, 
May I be aat'd or damn'd,' 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud lo snool. 

Let him draw nesir ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool. 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song. 
Who, noteless, s.eals the crowds among. 
That weekly this area throng, 

O pass not by I 
•'ut with a f rater-feeling strong, 

Here, heave asigh. 

fe there a man, whose judgment clear, 
r, iii others teach the course to steer. 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

\^'ild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, thro' the startling tear. 

Survey this grave, 

Th'i poor inhabitant below 
Was Quick to learn and wise to know, 
A'ld keenly lel' *.he friendly glow, 

And softer fiarae, 
But thoughtless follieB laid him low, 

And stain'd his name ! 

* Goidsniith. 



(Reader, attend — whether thy noiil 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
_ Or darkling bruds this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control. 
Is wisdom's ro 



ON THE LATE 

CAPT. Grose's peregrinatio?;s 

THROUGH SCOTLAND 

COLLECTING THE ANTIttUITIES OF THAT 
KINGDOM. 

HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirkto Johnie Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent It : 
A cbield's amang you taking notes. 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat, fudgel wight, 
O ' stature abort, but genius bright. 

That's he, mark weel— 
And vow 1 he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* 
Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d save's ! colieaguin 

At some black art. — 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in gluinor. 
And you deejj read in hell's black grammar, 

Warrocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight b e» 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the — Anliquai inn trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackels,t 
Wad baud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
Andparritch-jiats, and auld saut-backeta. 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender ; 

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotlanrt. 
t Vide his Treaties on Ancient Armour and Wea- 



B'v RNS- POEMS. 



76 



That which cUsluiguighod ilie trender 

U' Balaam's ass ; 

A broom-stick o' the witch of Eiidor, 

Wetl sliod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' §leg, 
The cut of Adam's philiheg ; 
rhekaife that nickel Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a fauldmg jocteleg, 

Or laiig-kail gullie.— 

But wad ye see liim in iiis glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and iwa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
A'al P'j't, Oport ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'U see him ! 

Now, by thepow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shail ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shamefa' thee. 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY. 

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, 
PRESENTED TO HER3Y THE AUTHOR. 

BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming on thy early May, 
Neve.-may'st thou, lovely flow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 
Nu'sr Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eunis' pois 'nous breath, 
Never baleful steller lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf ' 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom, blushing still wi:h dew ! 

May'stthou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some ev'ning, sober, calm. 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm. 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And ev'ry bird ihe requiem sings ; 
Thou amid the dirgeful sound. 
Shed thy dying honours i ound, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



ANNA, thy charms my bosom fire, 
And waste my soul with care ; 



But ah ! how booties;; to a<)mire, 
When fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fa.r, 
To hope may be forgiv'n ; 

For sure 'twere impious to despair. 
So much in sight ofUeav'u. 



ON READING, IN A NR WSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN 
M*LEOD, Esq. 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, APARTICU 
LaR FRIEND OP THE AUTHOR'S. 

SAD thy tale, thou idle page. 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow ; 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd ; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding cloudi 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung : 
So Isabella's hear', was forin'd, 

And so 'hat heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 

Can heal the wound he gave ; 
Can poin. the brimful gi-ief- worn eyes 

To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow 

And fear no withering blast ; 
There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last. 



THE 

HUMBLE PETITION 

OF 

BRUAR WATER* 

TO 

THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLJ^ 

MY Lord, I know, your noble ear 
Wo ne'er assails in vain ; 

•Briiar Falls in Athole arc exceenmely pictiireiqv 
and bHiintifiil ; but their effect is much impaired by tht 
want of trees and shrubs. 



BURNS' POETvlS. 



EmboMen'd ihua. I hegvoii'll hear 
Your hiimble Slave complain, 

How saucy riicebus' scorching beams, 
lu flaming sunrvmer-pride, 

Dry-weathering, waste my foamy streams, 
And drink my crystal tide. 

The liglitly-jumping glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
.f, in their random, wanton spouts. 

They near the margin stray ; 
ir hapless chance ! they lingerlang, 

I'm scorching up to shaMow, 
TJiey're left the whitenins stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' snite and tren, 

As Poet B**** came by. 
That to a Bard I should be seen 

VVi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, 1 ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't raysel, 

Worth gaun a nile to see. 



Would then''my noble master p4ease 

To grant my highest wishes. 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
Ami listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, watT)ling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir ; 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear. 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow : 

This too, a covert shall ensure, 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And cowarv. maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat. 

To weave his crown offlow'rs ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat. 

From prone descending show'rs. 

And nere, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

A « empty, idle care: 
The flow'rs shall viein all their charms 

The hour ofheav'n to grace, 



And birks extend their ''ri>sr*iit*nm 
To screen the dear embrace. 

Here, haply too, at vernal dawo, 

Some musing bard may stray. 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, gray ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 

Mild clieqiiering thrn' the trees. 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream. 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-pending in the pool. 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Letfragi-ant birk?in woodbines dr 

My craggy clirts adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest. 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may, old Scotia's darling hope. 

Your little angel band. 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land I 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

The social flowing glasses, 
Togi-ace be — " Aihole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses !" 



ON SCARING SOME WATER 
FOWL INLOCH-TURIT. 

A WILD SCEXE AMONG THE HILL3 Ofc' 
OUGHTLRTYRE. 

WHY, ye tenants of the lake, 
Forme your wat'ry haunt l-jr^rtke' 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, wliy 
At my presence thus you fly .■" 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties .-' — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all ars free . 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or beneath the sheltering rock. 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace 
Man, your proud usurping loe, 
Would be lord of all below : 
Flumes himself in Freedom's pride. 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow. 
Marking you his prey below. 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels. 
But, man, to whom aiuneis eiv'n 
A rav direct from pitying He«»'B. 



Gionei in m« neart numane— 

And ci eatures for his pleasure slain. 

Ill these savage. l\qnifi plains, 
0(#/ "m.L.W! to \va:ii!'rins swains, 
V!i."re liie mossy riv'let strays. 
Far from human Kaiiuts andw-ays^ 
All on Nature yon depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior mi!;ht. 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ellier borne, 
Man with all his po\v'r< you scorn ; 
Swi'lly seek, on clanging wings, 
Otuer lakes and other sijrinss ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, 

IN THE PARLOUR OP THE INN AT KEN- 
MORE, TAYMOUTH. 

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace, 

These northern scenes with w^eary feel I trace ; 

O'er many a winding dale antl painful sleep, 

Th' abodes of covey 'd grouse and timid sheep, 

My savage journey, curious, 1 pursue, 

Till fam'd breidalbane opens to my view. 

The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 

The woods, wild scatter'd, clolhe their ample sides ; 

Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, 

The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 

The Ta/ meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 

Tne palace rising on his verdant side ; 

The lawns wood fring'd in Nature's native taste ; 

The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 

The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 

The village, glittering iu the moontide beam- 



Poetic ardours in my b?snm swell. 

Lone waud'ring by the hermit's mossy cell ; 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

Th" incessant roar of headlong tumbhng floods 



Here poesy might wake her heav'n-taughl lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire ; 
Here to the wrongs of fate half recoucil'd, 
Mislortune's lighlen'd ste|)S miglit wander wild ; 
And nisLivpointmunl, in llwse lonely bounds. 
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds. 
Here lieari-struck Gref miglitheav'u-wardstretch her 

scan. 
And iijjur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



BURNS' POEMS. 75 

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 



STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR 
LOCH-NESS. 

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged wood* 

The roaring Fyers i)ours his mossy lioods ; 

Till full hedaslies on the rocky mocuids. 

Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream r» 



As highin air the bursting torrents flow. 

As deep recoiling surges foam below, 

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, 

And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends, 

Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'is, 

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding low'rs. 

Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils. 

And still below the horrid caldron boils — 



ON THE BIRTH 



POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 



BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES 
FAMILY DISTRESS. 

SWEET Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And wardo' many a pray'r. 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
Andgane, alas ! the shell' ring tree, 

Should shield theefrae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour. 

An i wings the blast to blaw, 
Prr.ect thee frae the driving show't 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of wo and want, 

Who heal's life's various stounds, 
Protect and guard the mother plant, 

And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast. 

Fair on the summer morn : 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 



Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gera, 
Unscath'd by rutfian hand ! 

And from thee many a parent stew 
Ari»e to deck on> land ! 



76 



BURNS' POEMS. 



THE WHISTLE, 

A BALLAD. 



Ai the tinthentic prose history of the Whistle ia curi- 
O'lB, I shall here give it.— In the train of Anne of Den- 
mark, when she came to Scotland, with our James the 

Tth, there came over also a Danish gentleman ofgi 
gantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless 
champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle, 
which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the 
table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body 
else beinar disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to 
carry otf the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane 
produced credentials of his victories, without a single 
defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Mos- 
cow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Ger- 
many ; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the 
alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowl- 
edging their inferiority. — After many overthrows on 
the part of the Scots, the Pane was encountered by Sir 
Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestorof the present 
worthy baronet of that name ; who, after three days' 
and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian 
underthe table, 

And blew on the VPTiisUe his reguium shrill. 
SirWalter, son to Sir Rohertbefore mentioned, after- 
wards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddle of Glenrid- 
del, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's. — On 
Friday the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the 
Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the 
ballad, bvthe present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwel- 
ton ; Robert Riddel Esq. of Gleuriddel, lineal descend- 
ant and representative nf Walter Riddel, who won the 
Whistle, and in whose family it had continued ; and 
Alexander Furgusson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise 
descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentle- 
man carried off the hard-won honours of the field. 

1 SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 

I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. 

Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 
" This Whistle's your challenge to Scotland get o'er, 
And drink them to hell. Sir ! or ne'er see me more !" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'J, what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still. 
And blew on the whistle his requium shrill. * 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god-i?hip as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd ; 
Which now in his house has for ages remain 'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew 'd. 

Three joyous good fellows with hearts clear of flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so. famous for wit, worth and law ; 
* See Ossian's Carrie thura. 



And trusty GJenriddel, so skill'd in old coin* ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read iii old wine». 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oh. 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the cian, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

" By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddel replie*. 
Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,' 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no sptech would pretend: 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his friend. 
Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field. 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair. 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known to 

fame. 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovelj 

dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray. 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set. 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were 
wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; 
Bright Phcebua ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. 
And swore 't«ras the way that their ancestors did. 

Then worthy Glenviddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage 
A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The ga'lant Sir Robert fought hard to the end : 
But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend .' 
Though fate said — a hero should perish in light ; 
So uprose bright Fhosbus — and down fell the knight. 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink : — 
" CraigdarricJi, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink' 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme. 
Come— one bottle more — and have at the sublime ' 

" Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom with 
Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day \" 
* See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 



MISCELLAJVEOUS PIECES OF POETRY 

EXTRACTED 

FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS; 



SONUS, 



C IMPOSED FOR THE MUSICAL PUBLICATIONS OP MESSRS. THOMSON AND JOHNSCN | 

WITH ADDITIONAL PIECES. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET.* ' 

AULD NFEBOR 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld farrant, tVien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair ; 
For my pulr, silly, rhymiii' clatter, 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle *, 
Laag may your elbuclc jink an' diddle ; 
To cheer you through the weary widiUe 

O' war'ly cares. 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, gray hairs. 

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye haenegleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wna like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Rivin the words to gar them clink ; 
Whylesdais't wi' love, whyles dais't wi' drink, 

^^ .' jads or masons ; 
Aa. whyles, tut ay owre late, I tliink 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Connnen' me to the Bardie clan ; 
txcepl il De some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink, 
The ilevil-haet, that I sus ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae tho-jght, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : 

' This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, pub- 
Iwhsdal Kilnittruock, 17Sa. 



But just the pouchie put the nieve in. 

An' while ought's there. 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievirt'. 

An' fase nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only ir leasure. 
At hame. a fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poorhizzia 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure. 

She's seldom lazy. 

Hand to the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
Tiie warl' may play you monie a sliavie ; 
IJut for the muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho e'er aae pulr, 
Na, even tho' limpiu wi' the spavie 

Frae door to doo' 



THE LASS O' BALLOCHlS^-^-ES 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were gre*- 

On ev'ry blade the pearls hang ; 
The Zephyr wantoned round the bean. 

And bore its fragrant sweets alaug : 
In every glen the mavis sang. 

All n::ture listening seemed the while. 
Except where green-wood echoes rung, 

Amanglhe braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy. 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair 1 chanced to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

lier air like nature's vernal smile. 
Perfection whispered passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle 1 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, ' 
And sweet is nigut in Autumn loild 



78 



BURNo' POEMS. 



W>ieii roving ihro' the garden gay, 

Oi- wandering in the lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does (ompile ; 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle I 

O, had she been a country maifl, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' sheltered in the lowestshed 

That ever rose in Scotland's plain! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain 

Wiih joy, with rapture, 1 would toil ; 
And nislitly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' Ballochrnyle. 

Then |"ide might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofiy shine ; 
And thirst of gold might lem)jt the deep ; 

i)r dott'iiward seuk the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the fiocks or till the soil. 
And every day have joys divine, 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

THOU lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov 'si to greet the early morn, 
AgHui thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary t.om my soul was torn, 
O Mary ! dear departed shade I 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy- lover lowly iaul? 

Hear'st ihou the groans that rend hi» breast I 
That sacred hour can 1 lurgel. 

Can 1 forget the hallowed gi'ove, 
Where by the wmdine Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love 1 
Eternity will not eflace, 

I'hose records dear of transports past ; 
Tliy image at our last emuiace ; 

All! little thought we iwasourlastl 
Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wilu woods, iliick'ning, green; 
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

Tne birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowuig west, 

I'loclaimed the speed of winged day.' 
Still o'er these scenes my inein'ry wakes, 

Andfoii'Uy broods with miser care ! 
Time but the impression deeper makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
Mv Mary, dear departed shade I 

Where is ihy blissful place of rest } 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans iliai rend his breast ? 

LINES ON 

AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DaER. 

THIS wot ye all whom it 
f Rhynier Knbin, alias Kiirna 
OcbUDer iweuiy-third, 



A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprackled up the brae, 
1 dinner'd wi a Lord. 

I've been at drunken writer^ s feasts, 
Nae, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honour 'd jo/ura, 
When mighty Squireships of the quo»'rJl, 

Their hydra drouth did siokcL.. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'er looks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

.But oh for Ilogarth'e magic pow'r : 
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr. 

And how he star'd and stammer'd 
Whsn goavaii, as if led wi' branki>, 
All' stumpan' on his ploughman shankl. 

He in the parlour nammer'd. 



i sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
Aii' at his Lordship sleal't a look 

Like some portentous omsn ; 
Except good-sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watcii'd the syrr ptoms o' the s> eat, 
The gentle |)ride, the lordly slate. 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The feint a pride, nae prifle had he. 
Nor sauce, nor state tlial I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his Lordship I shall learu. 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as well's another; 
Nae honest worthy man need care. 
To meet with noble, youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



ON A YOUNG LADY. 

Residing on the banks of the small nver Devon, tn 
Clack/nnnnanshire, but whose infant years w«>« 
spenr in Ayrshire. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devoa, 
With green-spreading bushes, and flowers bloominf 
fair ; 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon, 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr, 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew I 

Ami gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. 
That steals ou ibe cvcuiuk eakch Ittai l» tiMW 



BIRNS' POilMS. 



79 



O spare the dear Idossom, ve oneiu breezes. 
With chill hoary wing as ve usher the (lawn I 

And far be ihoii ilistanl, thou reptile ihat seizes 
The verdure and ptide of the garden and lawn 1 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay §ilded lilies, 
And England Iriumphani display her proud rose ; 

A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 



CASTLE GORDON'. 



L 



STREAMS that glide in orient plair-s, 
Never bound by winter's cliains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bunds: 
These, their richiy-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks, by Castle Gordon. 

11. 

Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Urihe ruthless native's way. 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil : 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave. 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle Gordon. 

in. 

Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mnnd. 
Dearest to the feeUns soul. 
She plants the forest, pours the flood ; 
I>ife's poor day I'll musing rave, 
Anj find at night a sheltering cave. 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
Bvbonnie Castle Gordon.* 



NAE-BODY. 

I RA E a wife o' my ain, 

I'll partake wi' nae-body ; 
I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 

I'll gie cuckold to nae-body, 

I hae a penny to spend. 

There— thanks to n-\e-body ; 
I hae naething to lend, 

rii borrow frae nae-body. 

• These verses nur Poet composed to be sung to M 
rag, a highlaud .ir, of which he wae extremely foni. 



I am nae-body's lord, 
I'll be slave to nae-body ; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 

I'll be merry and free. 

I'll be sad for nae-body ; 
If nae-body care fur me, 

I'll' care for nae-body. 



ON i HE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, 

NAMLD ECHO. 

la wood and wild, ye warbling throng. 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half-extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring screeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys; 
Now half your din of tuneless sound 

With Echo silent lies. 



SONG.* 

TUNE — " I am a man unmarried "» 

O, ONCE I lov'd abonnie lass. 

Ay, and 1 love her still. 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

Tallalderal,Src 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen. 

And mony full as braw, 
But fora modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess. 

Is pleasant to the e'e. 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses ay sae clean and neat. 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gah 

Gars ony di ess look wee!. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 

May slightly touch the heart 
But it's iiuiocenre and modesty 

That polishes the dart. 

' This was our Foel's first aliempu 



80 



BURNS' FORMS 



•Tis this in Kelly pleases me, 

'Tis this eachanls my sou! ; 
For ahsolutely ii> my hreast 

She, reigiis witliout contrf)!. 

Tallal de ral, !fc. 



INSCRIPT'ON 
TO THE MEMORY OF FURGUSSON. 
HKRE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. 

BorriSeptember 5th, 1151— Diea, 16th. October 1774. 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay 

"No storied urn nnr animated bust," 
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 

Tc pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

THK small birds rejoice in the green leaves returnins, 
The muriniirin^sireaml't winds clear ihro' the vale ; 

The hawthorn trees blow in tlie dews of the mornin?, 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair. 
While the linee-rinj moments are number'd by care ? 

No flowers gaily sprinecin?, nor birds sweetly singing 
Cai sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. 
The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice, 

A Icins and a lather to place oji his throne .'' 
His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, 

Where the wild beast find shelter, but I can find 



But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn, 
My lirave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn 
Voiir deeds prnv'd so loyal i:i hot bloody trial, 
Alas ' can 1 make you no sweeter return ! 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. 

WH KN Nature her great master-piece design'd. 
And Iram'd her last best work the human mind, 
I 'er eye intent on all I he mazy plan, 
She furui'd of various parts the various man. 



Thfln first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding uuiusiry and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth. 
And merchandise, whole genus lake their birth ; 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. 
Anil all mechanics' many apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buov are needful to the net ; 
T\iecnput moituum o( gross desires 
Makes a material lor mere kniglita and squires ; 



The martia. pnosopnnrus is tangnt to flow 

She kneads the lumpish philosophic dous^h. 

Then makes th' unyielding mass with grave' design*, 

Law, physics, politics, and ileep divines ; 

Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 

The flashing elements of female soids. 

I'he order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounced it very good ; 
But e'er she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half jest, she try'd one curious labour more. 
Some spi'.uy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter ; 
Such as the -lie"i-eit breath of air might scatter ; 
With arch-alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature.may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing and christens it — a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day unmindful of lo-muriow. 
A being form'd t'amuse his graver friend, 
Admir'd and prais'd— and here the homage ends 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife. 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of lite ; 
1 rone to enjoy each pleasure riches give. 
Yet haply wanting wliere withal to live : 
Longingto wipe each tear, to heal eacti groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh 'd at tirsi, tlieij leil for her poor work. 

itying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly threat, 
A title, and the only one 1 claim, 
To luy strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses hapeless train. 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main 1 
Their hearts on selfish stern absorbent stufl", 
That never gives — tho' hnmoly takes enough ; 
The little tale allows, ihey share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend, 
Ah, that" the udly e'er should want a friend I" 
Let prudence /lumber o'er each sturdy son, 
Wlio life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool ! ) 
Who make poor will do wait upon /should — 
We own they're prudent but who feels they'"" ;ood 
Ye wise ones, hence ' ye hurt the social eye ! 
God'f image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute disiingnishd— to bestow .' 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : 
Come tlmu who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 
Fi iend of my life, true patron of my rhymes I 
1 ropofmy dearesi hopes for future limes. 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 
Backward, abash 'd to ask thy friemlly aid ? 
I know my need, I know th ' giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the lunefid nine- 
Heavens ! should the branded character be mitft I 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely floWi, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose 



BURNS POEMS. 



bl 



Mark, huw their lofty iiiflependent spirit 

Soars on ic the spiiriiiii^ wing of injur'd merit ! 

Seek not tlie proofs in private life to find ; 

Uly tlie best oi words should be but wind ! 

So, to heaven's gates tlie lark's shrill song ascends 

But grovellins; on the earth the carol ends. 

Ill all the clam'roLis rry of slf.rviug want. 

They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 

Oblige them, patronise ilieir tinsel lays, 

They pprsecute you all your future days ! 

£re my poor soul such deep damnation siain. 

My hirciy fistassumes the I'iough a^ain ; 

The ^iehild jacket let me patch once more ; 

On eighteen-pence a week, I've liv'd before. 

Though, tha.iksto Heaven, I dare even that last shift, 

I trust meantime my boon is in thy gift : 

That plac'd by thae upon the wish'd-for height, 

Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 

Mv muse may imp her wing for some sublime flight 



FRAGMCNT 



INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white ; 
How genius, the illustrious father of liciion, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — 
1 sing : Jf these mortals, the cities, should bustle, 
I car_ not, not 1, let the critics go whistle. 

Bui now fora iatron, whose name and wnose giory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Vet whose paru and acquii-emenis seem mere lucky 

hits ; 
•Vith knowledge so vast, and with judgementso strong. 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite wrong; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ; 
A sorry, poormisbegoi son of the Muses, 
For using thy name oflers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, whr.l is man ! for as simple he looks, 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and.his shallows, his good and hisevil. 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours. 
That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its 

neighbours : 
Mankind are his show-box— a friend, would you know 

him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will show 

him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One tritiing particular, truth, should have raiss'dhim ; 

* This is our Poet's fi.st epistle to Graham of Fin- 
try. It is not equal to the second ; but it contains too 
milch of the characteristic vigour of its author to be 
fiippressed. A little more knowledge of natural his- 
torv, or of chemistry, was wanted to enable him to ex- 
•cuie th« original conception correctly. 



For, Bpiieof his fine theoretic po«ition«, 
M.tokind is a science defies definuions. « 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly de.sciU)e ; 
Have you found this, or t'other? lliere's inor» in lo 

wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll huu. 
But such IS the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature, call u Alan, 
No two viitues, whatever relation they claim, 
iNor even iwo dilfereiit shades ot the same. 
■J'hougli like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



TO DR. BI^ACKLOCK. 

£msland,21sr i let. l" 

Wow, out your letter made me vauntie 1 
And are ye hale, and wi^l. and caiitie .•' 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth i 
He tald myself by word o' mouth. 

He'd tak my letter; 
I lippeu'd to the chiel in troutli, 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To war" his theologic care on. 

And holy study ; 
And tir'd o' sauls to was.e his learon. 

E'en tried the body.* 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I 'm tiirn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear I fear 

■Ve'll now disdain roe. 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaikit, gleesome, daintle damies, 
Wha by C'aslalia's wimplin streamles, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken. 
That Strang necessity sujireme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud it, 

I need na vaunt. 
But I'll cned besoms — thraw saugh worries, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
m weary sick o't late and air : 



D 2 



* Mr. Feron, author of the History of 
o' various other works. 



.82 



BURNS POEMS. 



N ot but I hae a richer shar ? 

Tlian mony ithers ; 
But why should ae men better fare, 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair ; 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my sillv rhyme, 

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 

To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
Aud eKe the same to honest Lucky, 
» wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for ay. 

ROBERT BURNS. 



PROLOGUE, 



SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE ELLTSLAND, ON 
NEW-YEAR-DAY EVENING. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity ! 
Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new year I 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye. 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage giave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, 
" You're one year older this important day," 
If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion. 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question ; 
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word — " think I" 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit. 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way! 
•He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle. 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tbo' some by the skirt may try to snatch him ; 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not leastinlove, ye youthfu' fair, 
Anjelic forms, high Heaven's ',iftC'\'iar ra"*: ! 
Toycy .ild Bald-pate smooths his wnniciea brow, 
Aud humbly begs you'll mind the important — bow I 



To crown your happiness he asks your l^are, 
And offers, bliss to give and to receive. 

For oursuicere, Ihu' haply weak endeavoura, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours • 
And howsoe'erour tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



ELEGY 
ON THE LATE MISS BURNET 

OFMONBODDO. 

LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize. 

As Burnet lovely from her native skies ; 

Nor envious death so triumph 'din a lilnw. 

As that which laid the accomplish'd Burnet low. 

Thy lorm and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 
Ill richest ore the brightest jewel set I 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown 
As by his noble work the Godhead best is knowo. 

In vain ye flaunt in summtr's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — Ehza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens : 
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd , 

ye rugged cliffs, o'erhangii.g dreary glens. 
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cum'brous pride was all their worth 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 

And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth, 
Aud not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youlh and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams ^eyoiid the 8T>heTei 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of team 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
Thathearthow sunk, a prey to grief and care! 

So deckt the woodoine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bieak and bare. 



IMITATION 

OF AN OLD JACOBITE SONG. 

BY yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was gray ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down camft- 
There'll never be peace till Jamie conies hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars. 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 
We dare nae weel say 't, but we ken wha's to bla 
There'll never be peace tiUJamie comes hame. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



83 



My •ereo braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd ; 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me quite down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moment my words are the same— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



SONG OP DEATH. 

"Scene— a field of battle ; time of the. day — evening; 
the wounded and dying nf the victorious army are 
tupposed to ioin in the following Song, 

TAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
ye skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting sun 1 
Farewell, Joves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 

No terrors hast thQU to the brave 1 

Thoustrik'^it the dull peasant — he sinks in the dark. 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame 1 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands, 

Our King and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life 's last ebbing sands, 

O who would not rest with the brave I 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

£n Occasional Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle on 
her Benefit-Night. 

WfTILE Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things. 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan. 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man; 
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me mention. 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermix'd connection. 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection.— 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blast of fate, 
S'lnk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form. 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.— 

Our second Right— but needless here is caution. 
To keep that right invioiate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
' Hi'd die before he ". wrong it — 'tis decorum.-^ 
•» iiere was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naught" ways ; 



Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a rio«. 
Nay, even thus Invade a lady's quiet — 
Now, thank our stars I these Gothic times are fled *, 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, ourdeareet. 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the Rights of Kuigs in low prostration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life— immortal love.— 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms. 
Who is so rash a:s rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutioni, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let majesty our first attention summon. 
Ah I cairai the Majesty of Woman 1 



ADDRESS, 

Spokenby Miss Fontenelle, on her benefit-night, D#« 
cember 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dumfries. 

STILL anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing Detter; 
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies ; 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
"Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 
"I knowyour bent — these are no laughing times ; 
Canyou — but Miss, I own I have my fears. 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence. 
Rouse fromhis sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?" 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing. 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying.' 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world shall kno« 

it; 
And BO, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet. 

Firm as my creed. Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief. 
That Misery's another word for Grief : 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still imder bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face-^the beldam witch ' 
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love. 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strov 



84 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Who, as the bongns all temptingly project, 
.Mtasui-'8i in desperate thoiislit — a rope — thy neck- 
Or, Where the bPelling clift" o'erhangs the deep, 
I'eeresi to meditate the heaiiiis leiip ; 
Wciddst ihoii be c.ir'd, ihuu s)lly, moping elf, 
Lajghat her lollies— laugh r'eri al thyself: 
I. earn 10 d-spise those frowns now so ten-ific, 
And love a kinder— that's your grand specific 



To sum up all, be merry, T advise ; 
ilnd as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



SONGS. 



THE LEA-RTG. 

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star, 

Tells bughlin-iime is near, my jo ; 
And owseu iVae the furrow 'd field, 

Return saeduwf and weary, O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks, 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

Myain kind dearie, O. 

In mirkesi glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove and ne'er be eetie, 0, 
If thro' that^len, I gaeil to thee. 

My ain kind dearie, (). 
Altlio' the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I wer*- ne'er sae weai ie, O, 
I'd meet ;he>- on ihe lea rig, 

Alv ain kind dearie, O . 



The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo, 
At noon the fisher seeks the fflen. 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gieme the hour o' gloamin gray, 

ll maks my heart sae cheery, O, 
Tu meet thee on the Itarig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



TO MARY. 

TUNE—" Ewe-bughts, Marion. 

WiT.I.yego tothe In<iies, my Mary, 
Anil leave anid Scotia's sh.'re ? 

Will ye go to the Indies my Mary, 
Across ih' Allaiiiic's rour^ 

O sweet growa the lime and 'ilie orange, 

And the apple on the pine ; 
But a' the charms o' the Indies 

Vaa nevtr equal thine. 



I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I swore by the Heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When 1 forget my vow 1 

plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual art'ection lojom. 
And curst be the cause that shall >?art ua I 

The hour, and the moment o' time t* 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 

S<IE is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 
1 never lo'ed a dearer, 
And niest my heart I '11 wear her, 
• For fear my jewel line. 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This swett wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack we share o't, 
The warstle and the care o't; 
Wi' her rilblithly h.;arit, 
And think my lot divine. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 

O .SAW ye bonnie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border? 
She's gaen, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquels farther. 

To see her is to love her, 

And l.ivebui litr for ever ; 
For Nature iiiadr her what sneb, 

And ne'er made sic anit..er 1 

Thou art a queen, fair Les'.'y, 

Thy suhjens we, liefore thee; 
Thou »rt divine, fair Lesley, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The r)eil he conlil na scaith «hee, 

Or anghl that wad bclaiig thee ; 
He'd look into 'he bonnie face. 

And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

• This Song Mr. Thompson has not adopted in 
collection. It deserves, however, to be preserTeU. 



BURNS' POEiMS. 



25 



The Puwer» aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'na steer tiiee ; 
Thou'rt iiVte tliemselves sae lovely 

That ill they'll ne'er lee near thee. 

Retnrn as;ain, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caleilouie ! 
Thill we may bras;, we liae a lass 

There'* naiie again sae bonnie. 



HIGHLi»VD MARY. 
TUNE—" Catharine Ogie." 

fK banks, and braes, and streams around, 

Therasile o' Montgomery, 
Green he your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your w.iters never finimlie ! 
There aiinmer first unfaiild lier roues, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there 1 took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly hloom'd the gay ?reen birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom j 
Asunderneatli their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And (jledtrins aft to meet again. 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod and M-^nld's the clay, 

That wraps rny HighUsiJ Alary ! 

O pale, pale now, t'lose rr/ij lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondlj ! 
And closed for ay, the sparkling glance, 

That dweH on me sae kindly ! 
A mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core, 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 

THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon ^len, 
He's the king o' gnid fellows and wale of auld men ; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kiue, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the ev'nin^ amang the new hay ; 
As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, 
Anddeai to my heart as the light to mye'e. 



But Oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird. 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-liouse and yard; 
A wooer like me maunna /lope to come speed, 
The wounds I mustliide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, hut delislit brings me nane ; 
The iiiglil comes to ine, but my rest it is g;uie : 
I wander my lane like a ni^l l-lrdulili-il oliaist, 
And 1 sigh as my heart it would burst in my breaA. 

O, had she been but of lower degree, 
I then might hae i jp'd she wad smii'd upon me 1 
O, l.GW past riescrihing had then been my bliBa, 
As now my distraction no words can express I 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo, 
Hi.hn, the icoojrtsn't, 
Onblytlie yule night when we wereJou, 

Ha. /la, the wooing o^t, 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Lonk'd askleiy and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 
Ih. ha, the wooing o^t 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray 'd J 

Hn,kn, Src. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha. Sec. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat hiseen baith bleer't and Win', 
Spak o' lowpin owre a linn ; 

Ha, ha, !fc. 



Time and chance are but a tid%, 
Ha, ha, Sec. 

Slighted love is sair to bide. 
Ha, ha, Src. 

Shall T, like a fool, quoth he. 

For a haughty bi/zle die ? 

She may gae to — France for me i 
Ha, ha, ^c. 



How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heil, 

Hn, ha. Sec. 
Something in her bosom wrings. 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And O, hereen, they spak sic thins 

Ha, ha, !fc., 

Duncan was a Ad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, &,'c. 
D'lncan could na be her death, 
Swellingpitysmoor'd his wrath j 
Now they're crouse aid canty XiviOt^ 

Ha, ha ^e. 



86 



BURNS' POEMS. 



TUNE—" I had a horse.' 

O POORTITH cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
yet poortith a' I could forgive, 

An' 'twere aa for my Jeaiiie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 

Depend on Fortune's shining i 

This warld's wealth when I think on, 
Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, fie on silly coward man. 
Thai he should be the slave o't> 
Oiofu/, ifc. 

Her een sae bonnie blue betray, 
How she repays ray passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword ay, 

She talks of rank and fashion. 

O why, •^•c. 

O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O wha can prudence think upon. 

And sae in love as I am ? 
O why, Sfc. 

How bleot the humble cotter's fate I 
He wooes his simple dearie ; 

The sillie bodies, wealth and state, 
Can never make them eerie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life'- dearest bands untwining ? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love. 
Depend on Fortune' shining? 



GALLA WATER. 

THERE'S braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 

That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 
But Yarrow braes nor Ettric shaws, 

Can match the lads o' Galla water- 
But there is ane, a secret ane, 

Aboon them a' I lo'e liim better ; 
And I'll be liis, and he'll be mine, 

The bonnie lad o' Galla water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird. 
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 
We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
Thatcoft contentment, peace, or pleasure, 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's tbeuhiefeat warld's treasure I 



LORD GREGORY. 

O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour. 

And loud the tempest roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r. 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 

An exile fras her father's ha'. 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw 

Klove it may na be. 

Lord Gregory ,,mind'st thou not the grove. 

By bonnie Irwine side. 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love 

1 lang, lang had denied. 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow. 

Thou wad for ay be mine ! 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true. 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven that flashes! by, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But sjjare, and pardon my fause love, 

Kis wrangs to heaven and ine ! 



MARY MORISON. 
TUNE— "Bide ye yet," 

MARY, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the irysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

'That mnke the miser's treasure poor I 
How blilhly wad 1 bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sim to sun ; 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. * 

Yestreen when to the trembling strini;. 
The dance gaed thro' tlie lighted ha'. 

To thee my fancy look its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard or saw : 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw. 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 s'gh'd, and said amang them a', 
" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

W.ia for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of hit, 

Whase only fault is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wiltna gie. 

At least je pity to me shown I 
A thought ungentle caniia b* 

The thoughts o' Mary MorUiti, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



87 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

ff ERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with wandering, liaud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom rny ae only dearie, 
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting ; 

It was na the blast Drought the tear to my ee : 
Now weicome the simmer, and welcome my Willie 

The simmer to nature, ray Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers, 
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! 

Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows. 
And waft ray dear laddie auce mair to my arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie, 

O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main ; 

May I never see It, may I never trow it, 
But dying belisvethat my Willie's raj ain I 



THE SAME, 
As altered by Mr Erskine and Mr. Thomson, 

HERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, hand awa hame. 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 



Wlnter^ninds blew loud rmd caul at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e, 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
As simmer to nature, so Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slum'jers. 
How your dread howling a lover alarms 1 

Blow soft ye breezes ! roil gent'y yebillows ! 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But Oh, if he's faithless, and 7ninds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou dark-heaving main 1 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

While dying I think that my Willie's my ain. 

Our Poet, with his visual judgement, adopted some of 
these alf '.rations , and, rejected others. The last 
edition is as follows : 

HERE awa.tliere awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 

Cotme to ray bosom my ain only dearie, 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds olew loud and cauld at our parting. 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e, 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 



Rest, ye wild storms in the cave nf your slumbers, 
How ynur dread howling a lover aUirms ! 

JVaviken ye breeze's, row gently ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 



But oh r if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main ; 

May I never see it, may 1 never trow it. 
But dying, beliijve tiiat ray Willie's my ain. 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 

OH, open the door, some pity to show, • 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh I 
Tho'thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open ihe door to me, Oh ! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheetc. 

But caulder thy love for me, Oh ! 
The frost that freef.es the life at, my heart. 

Is nought to my pains frae thee. Oh 1 

The wan moonissettingbehiudthe white wave, 

And lime is setting with me, Oh ! 
False friends, fb.lse love, farewell I for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee. Oh ! 

She has open 'd the door, she has open'd it wide ; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain. Oh I 
My true love, she cried, and sank down by his aide , 

Never to rise again, Oh ! — 



TUNE—" Bonny Dundee," 

TRUE hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side n' the Nith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal yoiuig Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

0, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy monung. 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheedfd the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wi/.ard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'din hereen he delivers his law ; 
And still to her charTis she alone is a stranger t 

Her modest demeanour's tne jewel of a'. 



WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST WAS 
BLAWN. 

AIR—" The Mill Mill O." 

WH EN wild war's deadly bl ast was blawn 

And gentle peace returning, 
W:' mony a sweet babe fertherlest, 

And mony a widow mourning. 



S8 



BURNS' POEMS. 



t let' the lines and tented field, 
Where laiig I'd Ijecn a lodger ; 

My humble laiapsack a' my wealth, 
A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd- i' plunder; 
And for fair Scotia's harae again, 

1 cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length t reach'd the bonnie glen. 

Where early life I snorted ; 
I pa'=s'd the mill, and trysting thorn, 

Wrere Nancy aft I courted ; 
Wha spied T but my ain dear mnid, 

Down by her mother's dwellins! 
And tum'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lasi. 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
D ! happy, happy may he be. 

That's dearest to thy bosom I 
My purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
I've serv'd my king and country lang, 

Take pity on a aodger. 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier than ever : 
duo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed. 

Forget him shall [ never : 
Our humble cot, and liamely fare. 

Ye freely sliall partake it, 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 

She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — 
Syne pale likeony lily ; 

She sank within my arms, and cried. 
Art thou my aiu dear Willie? 

By him -who made yon suri and sky- 
By whom true love's regarded, 

) am the man ; and thus may still 
True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hams, 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Ciuo' siie, my graudsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

'I'he farmer ploughs the manor ; 
B'lt elory is the sodger's prize ; 

The sodger's wealth is honour, 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise. 

Nor count him as a stranger. 
Remember he s his country's stay 

in day and hour of danger. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 

AIR—" O bonny lass, will you lie in a Barrack/ 

O KEN ye what Meg o'^he Mill has gotten. 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has »otten? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl :• — 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving ; 
The Laird did address hei wi' matter mair moriag, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailin;; ; 
And wae on the love that is fix'd on !> mailen I 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. 
But, gie me ray love, and a fig for the warl I 



TUN J 



Liggeram Cosh.' 



BLITHE hae I been on yon hill. 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae longer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can plense me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy. 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy, is the task, 

Hopeless love decla-ing: 
Trembling, 1 dow nocht but glowV, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing! 
If she winnacase the ihraws. 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass green-sod. 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



TUNE—" Logan Water." 

O LOGAN, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne hao o'er us run. 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry hanks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear. 
While my dear lad maun face his faea 
far, far frae me and Lu§an braes. 

Again the merry month o' May, 
Has made our hills and valleyv^y ' 



BUJlNS' POEMS. 



i» 



M bird» rejoice In leafy bow'r», 
TUe bees hum round the breathing flow'n: 
Blithe, morning hfls Irs rosy eye, 
Anii ev'ning's tears are tears of joy ; 
My soul, itelightless, a' surveys, 
Wliile Whillie's farfrae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' male will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile, 
iJjt I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. 
While WiUie't far frae Logan braes ! 

O was upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate I 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn 
Sae may it on yoiu- heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy. 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry? 
Bu« soon may peace bring haopy days, 
ijul WiUie, hame to Logau braes 1 



FRAGMENT, 

IN 

witherspoon's collection 

OP 

SCOTS SONGS. 
AIR—" Hughie Graham." 

** O GIN my love were yon red rose, 

That grows upon the castle wa'. 
And 1 mysei a drop o' dew, 

Into her bonnie breast to fa' I 

" Oh, there beyond expression blest, 

I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 
Beal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 

Tillfley'd awa' by Fhoebus' light." 

O were my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring, 
And 1 , a bird to shelter there, 

When wearied on my httle wing : 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.* 

• These atanzas were added by Bum*. 



BONNIE JEAN. 

THERE was a lass.- and she was fair, 

At kirk and market lo be seen, 
When a' the fairest maids were met, 

The fairest maid was bonnie Jearj. 

And ay she wrought her mnmmie's warks 

And ay she sang sae merrilie : 
The blithest biid upon the bush 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the lili le lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flow'rs 
And love wiil break the soundest rest. 

Young robbie was the brawest lad. 
The flower and pride o' a' ihe glen; 

And he haJ owsen, sheep and kye. 
And wautou naigies nine or tea. 

He gaeil wi' Jeanietoihe tryste, 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down 

And laiig ere witless Jeanie wist, 
Her heart was tint, her peace was stOVft 

As in the bosom o' the stream. 
The moon beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love. 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's war ., 
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Ye wist na what her ail might be. 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And did na joy blink in her e'e, 

As Robie tauld hei' a tale o' love, 
Ae e'eninon thelilly lea? 

The sun was sinking in the west. 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whispered thus his tale o' lo^fc : 

O Jeanie fair, I lo'c thee deat : 
O canst th u think lo fancy me ! 

Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 
And learn to lent the farms wi' me ? 

At bam or byre thou shall na drudge. 
Or naethingelse to trouble thee ; 

But stray amanglhe heuther-beils. 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length ste ilush'd a sweet consent. 

And love was ay between them twa. 

PHILT.IS THE FAlVL 

TUNE—" Robin Adair- 

WHILE larks with litUe vvi\f 
Fann'd the pure air. 



90 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountaiiis high , 
Such thy morn : did I cry, 

ihiUis the fair. 

Ii each bird's careless song, 

Glad did i share ; 
While yon wild ftow'rs among, 

Chance led me there ; 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Roseiiuds hent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Fhillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

PhilUs the fair. 



TO the same Tune 

HAD I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Mhere llie winds howl to the waves dashing roar : 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my last repose. 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more . 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare. 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air I 
To thy new lover hie, 
Laugh o'er thy perjury. 
Then in thy bosom try. 

What peace is tliere ! 



TUNE—" Allan Water." 

BY Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, 

While rhcebus sank beyond Benleddi ;* 
The winds were whispering thro' the gi"ove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready ; 
I listen'd to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony ; 
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang — 

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie 1 

O, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nighily bogle makes it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and lirae I met my dearie I 

• A mcuntoin west of Straiih Allan, 3,000 feet high. 



Her head upon my throbbing breast, 
She, sinking, said, " I'm thine forerer 1" 

While mony a kiss the seal imprest , 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should saver. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day, 

Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ; 
But can they melt the glowing heart. 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart. 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ; 



WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU MY 

LAD. 

O WHITTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and miiher and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-style, and let nae body see 
And come as ye were na comin to me, 
And come, &c. 

O whistle, Src 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie : 
But steal me a blink o' your bounic black e'e. 
Yet look as ye were na looking at me 
Yet look, &c. 

O whistle, Sec 

Ay TOW and protest that ye care na for me. 
And whyles ye may ligluiy my beauty a wee ; 
But court na aniiher, tho' jokin ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c, 

O whistle, Ifc, 



SONG. 
TUNE—" The mucking o' Geordie'* byrt." 

ADOWN winding Nilh I did wander. 
To mark the sweet flowers as they sprung 

Adown winding Nilh I did wander. 
Of Philiis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa wV your belles and your heautie* 
They never wV her can compare : 

Whatever has met wi' my Philiit, 
Has met wV the queen o' the Jaiu 



The daisy amns'd my food fancy, 
o ai-tless, so simple, so wild ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



91 



Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 
Fur stie is simplicity's cjiild. 
Awa, Sfc, 

The rose-bud's ibe blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tia presl ; 

How fair and how pure is tlie Uly, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, Sfc. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie ; 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine 
Its dew-diop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa, Sfc. 

Her voice is the song of the morning, 

That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove. 

When PhcEbus peeps over the mountains, 
Oa music, and pleasure and love. 
Awa, Sfc, 

But beauty how frail and how fleeting, 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind o' my i hiUia 
Win flourish without a decay. 
Awa, S(c. 



Air—" Cauld Kail." 

COME, let me take thee to my breast. 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur. 
And do 1 hear my Jeanie own. 

That equal transports move her? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms all wi' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
rU seek nae mair o' heaven to share ; 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae boiinie blue, 

I swear I'm thine forever ! 
And on thy lips T seal my vow. 

And break i*, shall I never. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers; 
And now comes in my happy hours ; 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 



Meet me on the warlock knowe. 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There Fll spend Ike daijwi' you. 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 



The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lover* .i'. 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 
Meet me, Sfc. 

When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
Meet me. S(c, 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
1 flee to his arms I lo'e best, 

And that's ray ain dear Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 
Bonnie Davie, dainty D.Lvie, 

There I^Ll spend the day wi' you, 
My aindear dainty Davie, 



TUNE—" OranGaoil." 

BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, tliou darling of my heart ! 
Sever'd from thee can I strive ? 

But fate has will'd and we must part. 
['11 often greet its surging swell. 

Yon distant isle will often hail: 
'' E'en her I took the last farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 

Along the solitary shore. 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'llsaj', 

Where now my Nancy's path may be I 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me ! 



SONG. 

T UNE— "Fee him Father." 

THOU hast >.ft me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left m« 

ever. 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me 

ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death, Only should ui 

sever. 
Now thou'si left thy lass for ay— I maun see lhe« 

never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 

I Thou hast me forsaken. j3Triie,Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou hast ir.e toraaken.Jamie, Thou hastmp forsaken. 



i» 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Thoucanstloveanither jo, While my heart is break- 
ing. 
Soon my weary een I'll close— Never mair to waken, 
Jan-.:e, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

SHOUIiD auld acquaintance be forgot, 
AnJ never brought to inin' ? 

Should auki acquaintance be forgot. 
And days o' lang syne ? 

CHORUS. 

'For auld lane sT/ne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup o' kirtdness ytt. 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae ran about the braes, 

And pu'd the gowans fii>e ; 
But we've wander'd mony aweary foot, 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, S^e. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae moniiu sun tri dine : 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd. 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, S(c. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fier, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie waughl 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, Sfc. 

And surely ye'Il be your pint-stowp. 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'l' tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auldlangsyne. 
For auld, (fc. 



BANNOCK-BURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce haS aftenled, 
Welcome to yonrgory bed, 
Or to glorious victory. 

Now's me day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power 
Edward 1 chains and slavery ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as he a slave ? 
Traitor ! coward, turn and flee J 



Wha for Scotland's kin? and Jaw 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me I 



By oppressions woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be— shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low t 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die ! 



FAIR JENNY. 
TUNE—" Saw ye my father ?'» 

WHERE are the joys I have met in the raomins, 
That ilanc'd, to the lark's early song.' 

Where is the the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods among } 

No more a winding the course of yon river, 
And marking a xeH. flow rets so fair : 

No more I trace the "ght looisieps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighiug care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys. 

And grim, surly winter is near ? 
Vo, no, the bees humming round the gay rosea, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what T fear to discover, 

Yet long, too well have 1 known : 
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom. 

Is Jeuny, fair leuny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow ; 
Come then, enamour'd and fond v^f my anguUa, 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my wo. 



TUNE— "The Collier's Doehter.' 

DELUDED swain, the pleasure 

The fickle Fair can give thee, 
Is but a fairy treasure, 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean, 

The breezes idly roaming. 
The clouds' uncertain motion. 

They are but types of woman. 

O art thou not ashamed, 

Todoat upon a feature ? 
If man thou wouldst be named. 

Despise the silly creature. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Go, ftnd an hcnest fellow ; 

Good ciaret sei before thee : 
Hold o,i UU tliou an mellow. 

And then tu bed ui gjory. 



SONG. 

TUNE—" The auaker's wife. 

THINE am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Naacy ; 
Ev'ry piiise aluiig my veins, 
Ev'ry roviiig fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 

There to throb and languish ; 
Tho' desi)air had wrung its tvie. 

That would heal its anguish. 

Take away those rosy lips, 

Kich Willi balmy treasure ; 
Turn away thine eyes of love, 

Lest 1 die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love i 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer aun, 

Mature gay adoruug. 



SONG. 
TUNE—" Jo Janet." 

HUSBAND, hnsbanii, cease your strife. 

Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 
Th.>' I ant your wedded wife, 

Yet 1 am r.oi your slave, Sir. 

" Oneof two mnsi still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Izit man or woman, say, 

IV'v gpoiise, Nancy ?" 

If'tisstih tne lordly word, 

Sei-vice and obedience ; 
I'll desert mysov'rei'n lord. 

And so, good b'ye allegiance ! 

" Sad will T he, so bereft, 

Nancy, N'ancy ; 
Yet nilryto make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Mv pnor heart then lireak it must, 

iviv las', hour I'm ne;-,r it : 
When yoM lay me in the ilust 

Think, think how you will bear it. 

" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to uear it will be giren, 

My gpouje, Nancy." 

Well, Sir, from the siltnt dead 
StUl I'll try to daua*. you 



Ever round your midnight bed 
Horrid spritei shall haunt you. 

" I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear 

My spouse, Nancy." 



AIR—" The Sutor's DochterJ 

WILT thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart. 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul. 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that on;y thou 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow. 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ! 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na ihnu'lt refuse me : 
If it wiiiiia, canna be. 
Thou, for thine may choose me. 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting thatthon lo'es me. 
Lassie let me quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower. 
All underiiealli the birchin shade, 

The viliage-bell has loli'd the hour, 
O what can stay m> lovely maid? 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call : 
'Tis but the balmy breathing gale ; 

Mixt with some warbler's dying f<ul 
The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear! 

So calls the woocllark in the grove. 
His little t'ailhtul mate to cheer. 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ! and art thi.u ;ruel 
O welcome dear to love and me ! 

And lei ns allonrvowa renew. 
Along the fluwery banks of Cree. 



VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY. 

WITH 
A PRESENT OF SONGS. 

I HERE, where the Scottish muse immortal Hret, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers joiu'U, 



94 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Accept the' gift ; tlio' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the gi-ateful mind, 

^o may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love extatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's nntes, In luxury of tears 
As modest wanf the tale of wo reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endures, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 



TUNE—" O'er the Hills," &c. 



How can my poor heart be elad, 
When absent from my sailor lad? 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove ; 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away. 
On stormy geas and far away : 
Nil! fitly dreams'aTid thoughts by day 
Are ay with him t/iat's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint, 
4s weary flocks around me pant. 
Haply in this scorchnig sun 
M> sailor's thund'ring at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fiile do with ine vhal you may 
Spare but him that's far away ! 
On the seas, Ifc, 

At the stprless midnight hour. 
When winter rules with boundless pow'r 
As the storms the forests tear 
And thunders rent the howling air, 
Listening to the doubling roar, 
Surging on the rocky shore. 
All 1 can — I weep and pray. 
For his w«al that's far away. 
On the seas, S^c. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet, 
A nd as a brother kindly greet : 
Tlien may heaven with prosp'rous gales, 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To ray arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away. 
On tJi.e seas, !)-c. 



TUNE-" Ca' the Yowes to the Knowe* 

CHORUS. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca' them w/utre the bumie rums. 
My bonnie dearie. 

HARK, the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang; 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, Sfc. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide. 
O'er the waves, that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Co' the,&c. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers. 
Where at moonshme midnight houi, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 
Ca' the, &c. 



Ghoist nor bogle e4ialt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heav'n -ae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art. 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, Ifc. 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST Olr A 
TUN E— " Onagh's Water-faU. • 

SAE flaxen were her ringlets. 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling sae wyling. 

Wad make a wretch forget his wo ; 
What pleasure, what treasure. 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ! 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw , 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a\ 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion. 

Wad mak a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form, aodgrtcefu' aU i 



BURNS' POEMS. 



95 



Ilk feature— auld nature 

Declar'd thai she could do nae mair : 
Hers are the willmg chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign laW ; 
And ay my ChlorU' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me thb .vieiy vaiJpy, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon ; 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silve- Ught the boughs amang ; 
While falling, lecalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes her sang J 
There, dearest Chloris, wiU thou rove 

By winjpliugburn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love. 

And say thou lo'es me best of a' I 



SAW YE JVrY PHELY. 

(auasi dicat r-hillia.) 

TUN H — ' When she cam ben she bobbit. 

O SAW ye my dear, my Phely ? 
O saw ye ra' dear, my Phelv ? 
She's down 1' the grove, sne's wi' a new love, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely? 
What says she, my dnarest, my Phely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot 
And for ever disowns thee her Willy. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely I 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
Ai light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broJ-en the heart o' thy Willy. 



SONG. 
TUNE—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.' 

How longand dreary is the night, 

When I am frae my dearie ; 
1 restless lie frae e'en to morn, 

Tho' I were ae'er sae 



J weary. 



CHORUS. 

For oh, her lonely nights are Inng 
And oh, he^ dreams sae eerie ; 

And oh, herwidoiu'd heart is sair. 
That ^s absent frae her dearie. 

Wben I think on the lithsome days 
I spent wi' thee my dearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar, 
How can I be but eerie f 
For oh, Src 



How slow ye move, ye heav v lK)ur« J 
The joyless day how dreary 1 

It was ua sae ye glinted by. 
When i was wi' inv aearia. 
For oh, S)-c. 



TUNE—" Duncan uray." 

LET not woman e'er complain, 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain. 

Fickle man is apt to rove : 

Look abroad through Nature's range. 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 

Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise. 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man, 

To oppose great Nature's plan ? 

We'll be constant while we can — 
You can be no more, you know. 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS 
MISTRESS. 
TUNE—" Deil tak the Wars." 

SLEEP'ST thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creatu-e, 

Rjsy morn now lifts his eye. 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' ]oy ; 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ; 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower ; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy. 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day, 

Phcebus gilding the brow o' morning, 

Banishes ilk darksome shade, 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my suUeii sky ; 

But when, in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish'd sight. 

When through my very heart 

Her beaminH glories dart ; 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and Joy, 



90 



BURNS' POEMS. 



THE AIJLD MAN. 

BUT lately seen ia gladsome green 

The woods rejoic'd the day, 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay ; 
But now our joys are fled, 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich arrajr, 

Again shall bring ihem a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowo 

Sliall raelt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield. 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
On, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain I 
Thou golden time o' yonthfu' prime, 

Why com'sl thou not again ! 



TUNE—" My Lodging is on the coldground." 

MY Chloris, mark how grjen the grove*, 

The primrose banks how fair : 
The balmy galep awake the flowers, 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet I ween, 

To shepherds'Tis to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' siring 

hi lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reeJ, 

Blithe, in the birken shaw. 

The jjrincely revel may survey 

Ou~ rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
tiul are iheir hearts as light as our* 

Beneath tiie milk-while thorn ? 



The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
111 shepherd's phrase will woo ; 

1 ne courtier tells a finer taie. 
Bu'. .s his hearl as true ? 



From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girl on her mantle and her hose. 
And o'er the flowery mead she gue*. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely was she by the dcvwn, 

Youihjul Chloe, charming Chlot ■ 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd peo{^^e you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody, 
They hail the charming Chloe ; 

Till, painting gay the eastern skiea 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, 4"c. 



LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOota 

TUNE—" Rolheraurchie'i RwK." ' 

CHORUS. 

Lassie wV the lint-white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 

H'ill thouwV me tent thejloclcs, 

Vf^'ill thou be my dearie, 1 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea. 
And a' is young and sweet like thee; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi'iue, 
And say thou 'It be my dearie, O ? 
Lassie wV , &.C. 

And when the welcome simmer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bowef 
At sultry noon, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi', tfc. 



Tnese wild wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
That sj. 01 less breast o' thine : 

Thf courtiers' gems may witness love— 
Bui 'li^ naiuvt .ike mine. 



SUNG. 

Altered from an old English one. 

U wa» the charming month of May, 
AVhen all the flow'rs were fresh and gay. 
One morning, by the break of dayj 
Ttie fi'Uimul, charming Chloe ; 



When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray. 
The weary shearer's hameward way { 
Thro' yellow waving fields well sufty, 
And talk o'iove, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi', ifc. 

And when the howling wintry b!a«t 
Disturbs my lassie's midiiiaht rea; ; 
EiicUiS|,t,il to niv laithlu' breast. 
i'lKomloit i,iiee,ii.y iiei-nr, O. 

Lassie wi' the lint-wVte Inrk* . 

Bonnie lassie, ai tless lassie. 
O h'itt thou wi' me tent the flockt. 

Wilt thou be my dearie, O ' 



BURNS' POEMS. 



TUNl 



Nancy's to ihe Greenwood," &c. 



KAREWELL thon stream that winding flows 
AroutiL. f/uza's dwelling ! 

mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swellins : 

Coudjran'd to drag a hopeless chain, 

Aii.1 yet in secret languish, 
To Tdel a fire in ev'ry vain, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

1 fain my griefs would cover: 
The bursting sij^h. the' unweeling groan, 

Betray the hapless lover. 

1 know thou doom's! me to despair. 

Nor wilt, norcaiisi relieve me ; 
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer. 
For pity's sake forgive me. 

The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
1 saw thine eyes, yet aotlinig fear'd, 

,T)1I fears no more had sav'd me ; 
Tk' unwary sailor thus aghast. 

The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
'&Iid circling horrors suik at last. 

lu orerwLeimiag ruin. 



DUET. 

TUNE—" The Sow's TaU." 

HE— O PHILLY, happy be that day 

When roving through the galher'd hay 
My youthui' heart was stuwn away, 
Ana by thy charms, my ir hilly. 

SHE— O Willy, ay I bless the grove 

Where first I owu'd my maiden love. 
Whilst thou did pledge the Powers above 
To be my ain dear Willy. 

HE — A>sonesters of th9 early year 

Are ilka aay mair sweet to hear, 
So ilka day to ine mair dear 
And chaiming is my Philly. 

8IIE — As on the brier the budding rose 

Still richer breathes, and fairer blow^ 
So in my lender bosom grows 
The love 1 bear my Willy, 

HE— The milder sun and bluer sky. 

That crown my harvest cares wi' joy 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a»igMo' i-Lilly. 

SHE — The little s-srallow's wanton wine, 

Tho' waftin? o'er the flowery sprmg, 
Did ne'er to nie sic tidings uni.g, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 



HE — The oee that thro' the sunny nour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my dehght is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Fhilly, 

SHE — The woodbine in the dewy weet 

When evening shades in silerr* meet. 
Is nucht sae fragrant or sae 8we»- 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 

HE — Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 

And fools may tine, and knaves may wia 
Aly thoughts are a' bound up in ane. 
And that's my ain dear f hilly. 

SHE — What's a' the joys that gowd can gie J 

I care nae wealth a single lUe ; ' 

The lad 1 love's the lad for rr-e. 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 

SONG. 

TUNE—" Lumps o' Pudding,' 

CONTENTED wi' little, and cantiewi' mair. 

Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 

I gie them a skelp, as they're creepiii alang, 

Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish lang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troubiesodio i'houghlt 
But man is a soger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and guid humourare coin lu my poucn 
And my freedom's my lardship uae monarch lar« 
touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blithe end o' our journey at Ia«l, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has pa«l / 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way { 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en lei kjc jade gae : 
Come ease, or come travel ; come pleasure, or p''Jr, 
My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome agujn !»' 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS. MV KATY t 



TUNE— "Roy's wife. 



Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 7 
Canst thou leave me thits, my A.att/ 7 
Well thou know^sl my aching heart. 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity 1 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard. 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? 

Is this thy faithful swain's rewara— 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy? 
Canst thou, &c. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
Thai fickle heart of thine, my Katy I 



BURNS' POEMS. 



jTiou may-Bl fiuJ those will lore thee dear— 
But aot a love line mine, my Kaiy, 
Canet thou, &c. 



MY NANNIES AWA. 
TUNE — " There'll never be peace." &C. 

Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, 
And listens the )ambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 
While birds warbie welcome.in iU:a green ahaw ; 
But to me it's delightlesa — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drapand primrose our woodlands adorn, 
And violets bathe in tne weet o' the morn j 
Thy pam my sad bosom sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn. 
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, 
And thou mellow mavis that hails the uight-fa' 
Give over for pity — my Nannie' awa. 

Come autumn, sae peasive, in yellow and gray, 
And sooth me wi' tiding o' nature's decay : 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snav, 
Alaue can delight me — now Na>mie'» awa. 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

I* there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs liis head, and a' that ', 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toil's obacnr;, and a' that, 
"^he rank is but the giiinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hoddin gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wina 

A man's a man for a' tliat ; 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their tinsel show, and a* that ; 
The lonest man, though e'er sae poor, 

U king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see fon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, ailB stares, and a' that ; 
Tho' hundreds worship at liis word, 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' tliat, and a' that. 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind, 

He locks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knighl, 
A marquis, duke, and a' that : 

Btit an honest man's aboon his might, 
Guid faith he mauna fa' that I 

For a ' that, and a' that, 
Their digniiiM, «^d a' that 



The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. 
Are higher ranks than a' thai. 

Then lei us pray that come unrn;. 

As come it will for a' that. 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the cutk* 

May bear the gree, and a' Umt, 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coming yet, for a' that. 
That man toman, the warlao'w. 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



SONG. 

TUNE—" Craig=«-burn-wc 

SWEET fa's the eve on Craigue-buru, 
And blithe awakes the morrow, 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nochtbut sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading ttAie*. 

I hear the wild birds singing : 
But what a weary wight can please, 

And care his bosom wringing? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart. 
Yet dare na for your auger : 

But secret love will break my heart. 
If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love auither. 
When yon green leaves fade frae tne «> 

Around my grave they'll wimer. 



I'UNE— " Let me in this ae nlfMi* 

O LASSIE, art thou sleepingyet? 
Or art thou wakin, I wc.ild v.'it .' 
For love has bound me hand and fcj?, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

O let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For piti/s sake this ae night, 

O rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hears't the winter wind and w'M 
.Mae sla- blinks thro' the driving alest { 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
Aud shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, Sfc. 

The bitter blast that round me blawa 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cauM 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
O Ui mt in, ire. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



9d 



HER ANSWER. 

O TKI L na me o' wind and rain, 
Opr-Aii'. na me wi' caiild dis'lain 1 
Gup. back llie gale ye ram again, 
I wiiiua let yon in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

/ tetl you now cni.9 ae night. 

This a'., ae, ae 7iigfit ; 
And ance for a' this ae night, 

Iwinna let you in, jo. 

The snellest biast, at mirktst hours, 
Thai round ihe |jainiess\vand'rer pouri, 
Is iiijcht to what poor she endures, 
Tiia*.'s trusted faithless man, jo. 
I tell you now, Sfc. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead| 
Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid the lesson read. 
The n'eird may be her ain, jo, 
I tell you now, ^c. 

The bird that charm'd his snmmer-day, 
Is now the cniel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trus:'ng woman say 
How aft her la'e's the same, jo, 
I tell you now, Ifc. 



ADDRESS TO 



HE WOOD-LARK. 

Or, "Loch- 



rUNE— " Where'U bonnie Ann lie 
Eroch Side." 

O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark stay, 
Nor quit for me the tren-.uling spray, 
• hapless luver coui'.s thy lay, 

Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that lender part. 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her hearty 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; . 
O' speechless grief, anxJ dark despair ; 
For pity's s'lfe, sweet bird, uae mair 
Or my poor heart is broken 1 



ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 
TUNE—" Ay wakin 0." 



Long, long the night 
Htavy somei the 



LOFC. 



White my louPa delight^ 
Ja on her bed of sorro», 

CAN I cease to care ? 

Can I cease to languiih. 
While my darling fair 

Is on thw couch of anguish ? 
Long, !fc. 

Every hope is fleJ, 

Every fear is terror 
Slumber even I dread. 

Every dream is horror, 

J^Tlg, &c. 

Hear me. Power's divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me I 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me t 
Long, &c. 



SONG. 

TUNE—" Humours of Glen." 

THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle Int foreign lands reckon, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the periuma, 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' gi-een breckan, 
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseea ( 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A-Usteniug the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud 
palace, 
What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and slave ! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold bubbling fouutaiui, 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
Savelove's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. 



TUNE — "Laddie, lie near me.' 

'TWAS na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when nacbody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stownglanceo' kindt;i 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Ctueen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 

Aad Uaau bast {Ji^tsd m« i«v« e' Ux 4ciar««S ■ 



100 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Anil thou'rt the angel that never can alter, 
Soulier the sun iu his mo'.ion would falter. 



ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. 
TUNE—" John Anderson my jo." 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hatCi ' 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies. 
To shtui impelUng ruin 

Awhile her pinions ti /es, 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruililess falconer, 

And drops beneath his leet. 



TUNE—" Deil takthe Wart." 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fasmon. 

Round the wealthy, tilled pride : 
Be. wher. compar"M with real passion, 

Poor is a. I that princely pride. 

What are the showy treasures ? 

What are the noisy pleasures ? 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : 

The po'ish'd jewel's bla/.e 

May draw the wond'ring gaze, 

And coLrtly grandeur bright 

The fa<icy may delight. 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Cldoris, 

III simplicity's array ; 
Lovely 83 yonder sweet opening flower ii, 

SliriMking from the gaze of day. 

O, then, the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming. 
In Love's duliglr.ful fetters she chains the willing 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown 

Even Avarice would deny 

His worsliipp'd deity, 
ind feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 



SONG. 
TUNE— This la nomyain House. 



thi* it no tnyain lassie, 
Fair tno' tht l»*ai* t» { 



O weel ken I my ain lastief 
Kind love is in ker e'e. ^ 

I SEE a form, I see a face. 
Ye weel rnay wi' the fairest place ; 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O tliis is nn, S,-c. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and taU 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And ay it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, &c. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseeu ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een. 
When kuid love is ill the e'e, 
O this is no, &c. 

It may escape the courtly sparks, 
It may escape the learned clerks; 
But weel the watching lover mark* 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O Ms is no Sic. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, 
SCOTTISH SONG. 

Now spring has clad the groves in green. 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd, waving curii is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of wo ! 

The trout within yon wimplin burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart. 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fuuntanis dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder clifl' that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, t wot 

Nae ruder visit knows. 
Was mil)-! ; till love has o'er me pait, 

A.id blighted a' my bloom. 
And now beneath the withering bla«t 

My youth and joys consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warb* jg springs. 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's j owei, 

ITatUtb* flowsry saar* 



BURNS' POEMS. 



101 



O' witching love, in luckless hour, 
Made me the thrall o' care. 

n had my fall! been Greenland snows 

Or Afric's Inmiiiig ^ciie, 
\Vi' man and r.iiiiire leaa;u'd my foes, 

So Peggy i-.e'er I'd know ? 
The wreicli whase doom is, " hope nae mair, 

Wliai tongue liis woes can tell ! 
Within wliase bosom, save despair, 

Nae itinder spirits dwell. 



SCOTTISH SONG. 

O BONNIE -was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 

And bonuie she, and ah, how dear 1 
It shaded fra t.he e'eniii sun. 

The ii-'=oudsin t\ie morning dew, 
How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 
They -witness'd in Uieu- shade yestreen. 

A in its rude and prickly power, 

That crimson rose, liow sweet and fair i 

Eut love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And 1, the world, ni.r wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and gr.efs alike resign. 



WRITTEN on a blank leaf of a copy of his Poems 
presented to a Lady, w/iom lie had often celebrated 
under the name of Chloris. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fiir Friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since, thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid vne world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since the gay morn of life o'ercast. 

Chill came the tempest's lower : 
( And ne'er misfortiuie's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since thy gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth has iliou in store. 

The comforts of <he mind I 

Thine is the se.'f-approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below 

Thine friendship's truest beait. 



j The Joys refin'd of sense and taat*. 
With every muse to rove ; 
And doubly were the poet biest 
These joys could he improve. 



ENGLISH SONG. 

TUNE—" Let me in this ae night.' 

FORLORN, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, 1 wande. here 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

CHORUS. 

O wert thou, love, but near me. 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
The blast each bud of hope and joy 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 
O wen, S,-c. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part. 
To poison fortune's ruthless dart- 
Let me not break thy faithful heart. 
And say that fate is mine, love. 
Owert, Sfc. 

B'lt dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet 1 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris i>nine, love. 
Owert, Sf-c. 



SCOTTISH BALLAD. 
TUNE—" The Lothian Lassie." 

LAST May a braw wooer cam down the iang glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 

I said there was naething 1 hated like men, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe me. 
The deuce gae wi'm, to lielieve me. 

He spak o' thie darts in my bonnie black e'en, 
And vow'd for my love he was dymg ; 

I said he might die when he liked, for Jean, 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A weel-stocked mailen, himself for the IiirtI, 
And marriage aff-haud, were his ijrolfers ! 

I never loot on that 1 kenn'd it, or car'd, 
But thought I might hae waur offers, wauroffert, 
But thought I might hae waur oflers. 

But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or leaa 
The deil tak his taste to gae nrar her I 



102 



BURNS' POEMS. 



He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 
Guess ye how, the jad I I could bear her, could bear 

her, 
G jess ye now, the jad I I could bear her, 

Bui a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 

1 gaed to I lie tryste o' Dalgarnock, 
And wha but my line fickle lover was there, 

1 glowr'd as I'd seeu a warlock, awarlock, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 

Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 
My wooer he ca|)er'il as he'd been iu drink, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie. 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet. 

Gin she had recover'd her hearin, 
And how lier new shoon fit her aukl shachl't feet, 

But, heavens ! how lie fell a swearin, aswearin, 

But heavens ! how he fell asweahn. 

He beeged, for Gudesake ! 1 wad be his wife. 

Or else 1 wail kill him wi' sorrow : 
Bo e en to preserve the poor body in life, 

1 Ihiiik 1 maun wed him to-morrow, tt>.morrow, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



FRAGMENT. 
TUNE— "The Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 

WMV, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy I 
Why why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 

O why, while fancy, raptnr'd, slumber*; 

Chlons, Chloris all the theme ; 
Why, why wouldst thou cruel. 

Wake Ihy lover from his dream ? 



HEY FOR A LASSWI' A TOCHER, 

TUNE—" Balinamona ora." 

AWA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms. 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms ; 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie ine the lass wi'tbe weelslockil farms. 

CHORUS. 

ITien hey, for a lass wV a tocher, then hey for a lass 

ici' a tocher, 
Then key, for a lass wi' a tocher ; the nice yellow 

guineas for me. 

Four beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, 
Aitd withers the faster, the faster it grows ( 



But the rapturous charm o' the bnnnie green Rnowes, 
Ilk spring they're nev deckit wi' bonnie while yosrcs. 
Then hey, &c. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 
The l)rigluest o' beauty may cloy, wnen possest , 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordieinipretl, 
The lauger ye hae them— the mair they're caresl. 
Then hey, Slc. 



SONG 

TUNE—" Here's ahealthtothemthat'aawa, hiney. 

CHORUS. 

Here^s a health to one Ilo'e dear. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear 

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lover* me*t, 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy J 

ALTHO' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied ; 
'Tis sweeter !or!liee despairing. 

Than aught in the world beside— Jessy I 

Here's a health, kc. y 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day. 
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the druam o' sweet slnirber, 
For then 1 am lock! in thy arms— Jessjrl 
Here's a health, &c. 

I guesa by the dear angel's smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling e'e ; 
But why urge the tender cnnfessicn 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree— Jetty I 
Here's a health, Sic. 



TUNE—" Rothermurchies's Rant. ♦ 
CHORUS. 

Fairest maid on Devon bank*. 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as t/iou were wont to da) 

FULL, well thou know'st I Icvethee dear, 

Couldsl thou to malice lend nn ear I 

0,did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 

Nor use a faithful lover so ?" 

Fairest maid, Sfc. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O. let me <ihare ] 
Ar>d by 'hy beauteous self 1 swear, 
No lovcbnt thine my heart shall kcov. 
Fai'- est maid, Ifc. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



103 



The birks of aberfeldy. 

Bomrie lassie, willye go, vi/l ye fo, will ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, willye go lathe birks oj Aberfeldy? 

Now simmer blinks en fiowery braes, 
Anil o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend I lie lishtsorae days, 
In the Biika of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, §•<:. 

While O'er their heads the hatels hlng, 
The little birdies blythly sin§, 
Or lightly fiit on wanton wing 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Boniie lassie, &e. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming at reaiii aeep roaring fa's, 
O'er-htiiig wi' fragrant spreading shaw". 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, Sec, 

Thehoary cliffs are crown 'd wi' flowers. 
White o'er the linns the buniie pours. 
And rising, weets wi' inisiy showers 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

. Bonnie lassie, &c. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Su|iTcmely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

B^ttnie lassie, Sfe, 



STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU LEAVE ME } 

TUNE— "An Gille dubh ciar-dhubh." 

ST AY, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Cruel, rj-uel to deceive me ! 

Well ycu know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

By my love so ill requited : 

By the laith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pan<?= of levers sliffhtert ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave ,ua so I 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

THICKEST night o'erhangmy dwelling ! 

Howling tempsst o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave 1 

Crystal streamlets, gently flowing 

Bm»v haunts of base mankind, 
W«stern breezes, softly blowing, 

Suit uut my dislrHcied uiind. 



In the cause of right engaged. 
Wrongs injurious to redress. 

Honour's war we strongly waged, 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Nov a hope that dare attend, 

The wide wm-ld is all before us — 
But a world without a fiiend I 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROTSUv 
TUNE-" Morag." 

LOUD Vaw the frosty breeres, 

The snavs the mountains cover 'J 
Likt winter on mo seizes, 

Since mv young Highlimd Rover 
Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er lie go, where'ei he ttray. 

May Heaven be his w?rden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathcpey, 

And bouuie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning, 
S!,all soon wi' leares be hinging. 

The birdies dowie moaning. 
Shall a' be bliihly singing. 
And every flower be springing. 
Sae I'll rejoice thelee-langday. 
When by his miglity warden 

My youth's return 'd to fair Sirathspev. 
And bounie Castle-Gordon. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWINO. 

TUNE—" M'Grigor of Ruaro's Lament." 

RAVING winds around herblowmg. 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowiug, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring. 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow. 

" O'er the pasttoo fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes, 
Life, thou soul of every blessine. 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee. 
And to dark oblivion join thee ! 



MUSING ON THE ROARING 
TUNE—" Druimlon dubh 
MURING on the ro.iHng ocean. 
Which clivi;i«g my iuve aud nie ; 



104 



BURNS' POEMS. 



■Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 
Tor his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 
Yielding late to nature 'slaw ; 

Whisp'riiig spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ife whom sorrow never wounded, 
Ye who never shed a tear, 

Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 
Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of liim that's far awa I 



BLITHE WAS SHE. 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 
Blithe was she but and hen : 

Blithe by the banks of Ern, 
And blithe in Glenturit glen. 

BY Onghtertyre grows the aik, 

Cp. Yarrow banks, tlie hirkenshawi 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarro.v ever saw. 
Blithe, ifc. 

Her looks were Uke a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn : 

She tripped by the hanks of Km, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blithe, (fc. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony Iamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

Aa was the bUnk o' Phenue's e'e. 
Blithe, &c. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide. 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been { 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blithe, &c. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shailes o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
II scents the early morning. 

Within the bi'sh, her covert neat 
A little liunct fondly presl, 



The dew sat chilly on her breaat 
Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amanglhe fresh green leaves bedew'd. 
Awake the early moiiiing. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair. 
On trembling string orvocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watch'd thy early morning. 



WHERE BRAVLVG ANGRY WINTEB 
STORMS. 

TUNE—" N. Gow's Lamentation for 
Abercairny." 

WHERE braving angry winter's stormi. 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade rriv I'eggy's charim 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who hy some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Aatonish'd, doubly marks itsbcam. 

With art's moat polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade. 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd. 

When first I fell that pow'r '. 
The tyrant death with grim control 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
liul tearing Pegi/y from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY 
TUNE—" Invercald's Reel." 

CHORUS, 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 
Ye would nae been sae shy ; 

For laik o' gear ye light ly me. 
But, trowth, I care na by. 

YESTREEN I met you on themocr. 
Ye spak na, but gaedbylike stoure s 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But feint a hair care I. 
O Tibbie, lhae,i[c. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may thinVr, • 
BermiRe ye hae the name o' clink. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



105 



That 79 can please me at a win<, 
Whene'er ye like to iry. 
O Tibbie, Ihae, Sfc. 

But sorrow tak liim that's sae meaiii 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy queen 
That looks sae proud and high, 
O Tibbie, Ihae, Sfc. 

AUho' a lad were e'er sae smart 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'U cast your head anilher airt. 
And answer him fii' dry. 
O Tibbie, Ihae, If c. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 

Ye'U fasten to him like abriar, 

Tho' hardly he for sense or lear, 

Be better than the kye. 

O Tibbie, I hae, Sfc. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Yourdaddie's gear maks you sae nice ; 
Thedeil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
OTibbie,Ihae,S(c. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would na gie her in her sark, 
For thee wi' a' ihy thousand mark : 
Ye need na look sae higli, 
O Tibbie, Ihae, &.C. * 



CLARIXDA. 

CIjARTNDA, mistress of my soul. 
The measur'd time is run ! 

T)ie wretch beneath the dreary pole. 
So maiks his latest sun, 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Syivander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light. 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part — but by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimraenng planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 



TUNE—" Seventh of November. 



TTIE day returns, my bosom bums. 
The blissful day we twa did meet, 



The' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 

Than a' the pride that loads the tide. 
And crosses o'er the sultry lini : 

Than kingly robes, thancrownp 3rd globes. 
Heaven gave me more — it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring del'shl, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
While joys above, my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ' 
When that grmi foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part ; 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks my bliss, — it breaks ray heart. 



THE Lazy mist. 

THE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ajipear 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are bro 
And all the gay foppery of summer is fl jwn ; 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 
How quick time is fiying, how keen fate pursue* t 
How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd ui vain j 
How little of life's scanty span may remain : 
What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn ; 
What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is eain'd \ 
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd how 

pain'd ! 
This life's not worth having with au it can give. 
For something bevond it poor man sure mi.sl live 



O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HTil,! 

TUNE—" My love is lost to me." 

0, WERE I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill : 
That I might catch poetic skill. 

To sing how dear 1 love thee. 
But Nith maun be my muse"s well. 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel ; 
On Corsincon I'll glower and spell. 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
I coudna sing, I coudna say, 

How much, how dear 1 love thee. 
1 see thee dancing o'er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limos sae clean, 
Thy templing lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee 1 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inllame ; 
And ay 1 muse and sing thy name, 
_ „ I onlv live to love thee. 



106 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Tho' 1 were doo-n'tl to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. 
Till my last wearv sand was run ; 
Tii Jien--and then I love thee. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 
TUNE—" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspsy.' 

or a' the airts the wind can blaw. 

! dearly hke the west, 
Tor there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods ^row pnd rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's fiight 

Is everwi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers. 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

1 hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs, 

By fountain^ shaw, or green, 
There '•8 not a bonnie bird that sings. 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



THE BRAES 0' BALLOCHAnLE. 

THE Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, 
Nae lav'rocksangon hillock green. 

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Thro' faded grove Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's bloom the whiie, 
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Farewenl the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Againye'll flourish fresh and fair : 
Ye birdies dump, in with'ring bowers. 

Again ye'U charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fureweel fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle. 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT. 

O, WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut, 

And Rob and Allan came to see ; 
Three blilher hearts, that lee-lang night, 

Ye wad na find in Chrisieudie. 

We are nafou, we're na that fou, 
But Just a drapiJie in our e'e : 

The cock Tnay craw, the day may daw 
Andaywe'U taste the barley bree. 



Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys 1 u-ow art, we ; 



And mony a night we've merry b««s. 

And mony mae we hope to be I 
We are nae fou, Sfc. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn. 

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 
She shines sae bright to wyle os liamo 
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a we«l 
We are nae fou, tft. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold, coward loon is he ! 

Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 

He is the king amang us three 

We are nae fou, &-c 



THE BLUE-EYKU LASSIE. 

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear I'h dearly rue ; 
1 gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie oiue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright; 

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white ; — 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'dshe smil'd, my heart she wyl'i, 

She charra'd my soul I wist na how ; 
And ay the stonnd the deadly wound. 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and S|iare to speed ; 

Siie'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 



THE BANKS OP NITH. 
TUNE—" Robie Dnna Gorach.'* 
THE Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Wiicre royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the N'ith to me. 

Where Commins ance had high comraandl 
When shall I see that honour'd land. 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here .' 

Now lovely, Kiih, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns eaily bloom; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering now, must be my doom. 

Far from thy bonnie banks andhraes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amuug the friends of early days 1 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 



JOHN ANDERSON my ]o, John, 
'NNIisn vt ware first aci^uent ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I or 



Toar locks were like the ra Ten, 
Your bonnie brow wis brent ; 

But now your brow is bald, John, 
Your locks are like the snaw ; 

But blessings ou your iVosty pow, 
John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clarab the hill ihegither ; 
And mony a canly day, John, 

We've had \vi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter dowuj John 

But hand and hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



TAM GLEN. 

MY heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len'. 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 

But what will Idowi' Tarn Glen? 

I'm thinkln, wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith i might mak a fen' ; 

What care 1 in riches to wallow. 
If I maunnu marry Tam Glen? 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Drummeller, 
"Guid day to you, brute," he coraesben: 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 
But when will he dance liKe Tam Glen? 

My minnie I'oes constantly dsave me. 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me : 
Bui wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 

My daddiesays, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me giiid huiider marks ten : 

But, if it's onlaiu'd I maun lak him, 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without faihng. 
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken 

His likeness cam up the house staukin 
And the very gray breeks o' TamGlen ' 

Come counsel, dearTittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie vou my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 



MKTKLE thiii/fs my luve o' my beauty, 
And mcikle tuiaic* my lure o' my kin ; 



But little ibinka my lure T ken brawKe, 
My Tocher's the jewel has charms for hinrj. 

It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 
It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 

My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller. 
He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny, 

My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an ye be crafty, 1 am cuniiin, 

Sae ye wi' enither your fortune may iry. 
Ye're like to the trimmer o' yon rotieii wood, 

Ye'll like to the hark o' yon rotlpn tree, 
Ye'U slip frae me like a knoiless thread, 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE LAWIN 

GANE is the day, and mirk's the night. 
But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' lisiht, 
for ale and brandy's atari and ra.ion. 
And bluid-red wine's the rysin sun. 

Tnen guidwife count the lawin, the lawin, the Iftwln, 
Then guidwife count the lawvi, aiid bring a coggit 



There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 

And seraple-falk maun fecht ana fen' ; \ 

But here we're a' in ae accord, '■ 

For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. '■ 

Then guidwife count, &0. ,1 

My coggie is a haly pool, | 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 

And pleasure is a wanton trout, \ 

An' ye drink it a' ye'll find him out. ; 

Theti guidwife count, &e, ■ 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI' 
AN aULd' man? 

WHAT can a younglassie, what shall a young lassie. 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auid m:in ? 

Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lau' ! 

Bad luck on the pennie. &.C. 

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin. 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day iaiig ; 

He'sdoylt and he's dozen, his bluid it is frozen, 
0' dreary's the night wi' a crazy aulri man ' 

He hums and he hairkers, he frets, and hecankjr*, 
I never can please him, do a' that T can ; 

He's leevish and jealous of a' the youns feilows : 
O, dool on the day I met wi' an' auld man \ 

My auld auntie Katie upon mn taks pity 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 

I'll cross him. and wrack him. until I heiirl-hrcak hi», 
And then hia auld brass will buy me a new paw. 



108 



BURNS' POEMS 



THE BONIE WEE THING. 

BONNIE wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine, 

I wad wear tnee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I sliould tine. 

Wishfully Hook and languish 

In that bonnie face o' thine ; 
And my heart it stounds wi anguish, 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

Ic ae constellation sliine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine 

'.wee, &e. 



O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TaM! 
TUNE—" The Moudiewort." 

An O, for ane and, twenty, Tarn ! 

An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tam I 
rU learn my kin ratling sang. 

An I sano ane and twenty, Tam. 

THEY snool me sair, and hand me down, 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun', 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam 1 
An O, for ane, Sec 

A pleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear. 
Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 

At kith or kin I needna spire, 
And I saw aue and twenty, Tam I 

An O, for ane 5-e. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof. 

The' ! mysel' hae plenty, Tam ; 
But hear'st thou laddie there's my loof, 

I'm thine at ane and t,wenty, Tam ! 

An O, for ane, Ife, 



BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

O I,F,EZEme on my spinning wheel, 
leeze me on my rock and reel ; 

Frae tap totae that deeds my bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Bl-^st wi' content, and milk and meal— 
leeze me on my spinning wheel. 

On ilka hand the biirnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot; 
The scented birk and hawuiurn wbite 
Across the pool their arms unite. 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest. 
And little fishes' callerrest : 
Toe sun blinks kindly in the biel', 
Where bliih I turn my spinning wheel. 



On lefty aiks the cushats wall, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale. 
The lintwhites in the hazel braea, 
Delighted, rival iihev's lays : 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The patiick whirrin o'er the ley. 
The swallow jinkin round my siiiei 
Amuse me at my spinning wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave ihis humble stale, 
for a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys. 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome Joys, 
Can they peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel? 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn. 

And corn wav'd green in ilka fiel'' 
While claver blooms white o'er the Ift 

And roses blaw in ilUa bield ; 
Elilhe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will s 
Oui spak a dame in wrinkled eild, 

" 0' guid advisement comes nae ill. 

" It's ye hae wooers inony ane, 

And lassie, ye're but yoniig ye ken : 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale. 

And routhie but, a roiithie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-gien, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my b<mnie hen. 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire." 

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single file ; 
He lo'es sae well his craps and kye. 

He has naeluve to spare for inc : 
But blithe's the blink o' Robbie's e'e. 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o' him 1 wad na eie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

" thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ; 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But ay fu' han't is fechtin best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare. 

An' wilfu' folk mau.i hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair. 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the y*0.* 

O, gear will buy me rigs o' land. 

And gear will buy me sheep anvl Irye *, 
But the tender heart o' leesome luT«, 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor — Robieand I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve brings peace and V«* 

What mairhae queens upon a ihtone^ 



BURNS' POEMS. 



lOS 



FAIR ELIZA. 
A GAELIC AtR. 

rUKN again, tnou fair Eliza, 

Av; Kiuii bJink before we part, 
Hew on ihy despairing lover I 

Canst thou break iiis taiihfu' heart? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love Ihy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise. 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Whafor thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom. 

Thou shall mix in ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sinny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e, 
Keus the pleasure, feels the rapture 

That thy presence gits to me. 



THE POSIE. 

OLUVE will renture in, where it daur na weel be 
seen, 

luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been ; 
But I will down yun river rove, amang the wood sae 

preen. 
And a' to pu' a poiie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I willpu',tfi firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, {Aa *inblem o' my dear. 
For she's the pink o' wom&iikind, and blooms without 
a peer ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the buddir.g rose when Phcebus peeps in Tjpw, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet boiinie mou ; 

1 he hyacinth 's for constancy wi' its unchanging blue, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air 
And a" to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray. 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, 
But tlie songster's nest within the bush I wiuaa tak 
away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'eningslaris near, 
Audlhe diamoiid-draps o' deW shall b« her eeu sae 
dear : 



The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear. 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band of luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' 

above, 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er 

remuve. 
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 

YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird. 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed never to return. 

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 

And tbndly sae did 1 o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; 
But my fause luver stole my rose, 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



TUNE—" CatharJjM O^." 

YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bhime sae fair, 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

Audi saefu' o' care ! 

Thou'U break my heart, thou bonuie L^ 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie tL 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang. 

And wist nao' my fate. 

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 
To see the wood-bine twine, 

And ilka bird sango' its love. 
And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd arose, 

Frae affits thorny tree, 
And my fause luver staw the rose, 

But left the thorn wi' me. 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE Ki.D. 

WILLIE Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
The Rpot they ca'd it Liukumdoddia 



13 



BURNS' POEMS, 



Willie was a wabsler gnid, 
Couusiowii a clue wi onybodie j 

He had a wife was dour and din, 
O Tinkler Madgie was lier rnitber ; 

Sic a wife as IMlHe had, 

/ vad na gie a button for her. 

She has an e'e, she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very colour ; 

Five rusty teeth, t'orbye a stump, 
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; 

\ whisken beard about her mou, 
Her nose and cliin they threaten ilher j 
Sic a wife, ^-c. 

She's how-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ; 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter ; 

She has a hump upon her breas'., 
The twin o' that upon her shoulher ; 
Sicawife,l,-c. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle «its, 
All' wi' her lonf her face a-washin ; 

But Willie's wile is naesae trig, 
She diglils her grunzie wi ' a hushion ; 

Her walie nieves like middea-creels, 
Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water i 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

J wad Txae gie a button for her. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

ASCE mair I hail thee, thou eloomy December ! 

Ance mair I hail lliee, wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers' farting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever. 

Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

Till the last leaf o' the s'immer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone ; 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sor-ow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' N'aacy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE.' 

WILT thou be my dearie ? 

Wiien sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 
O wil; thcu let me cheer thee ? 

By the trea2u-e of my soul , 
And that 'i the love I bear thee ! 

I «w*Br aiiti row. ibM only tho* 



Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, 1 swear and tow. 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 

Or if thou wilt na be my aln, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 

Ifit winna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may choose asj ; 

Let mc, lassie, quickiy die. 
Trusting that tliou lo'es nie. 

Lassie, let me quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



SHE'S FAIR AND FA USE. 

SHE'S fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof camin wi' rowth o' gear. 
And I hae tint my dearest dear. 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love. 

To this be "never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind : 
O woman lovely, woman fair ! 
An angel's form's faun to thy share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle tugien thee mair, 

I mean an angel mind. 



AFTON WATER. 

FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braea, 
Flow gently. I'll sins thee a song in thy praise ; 
iMy Mary's af'.eep by the murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lap-wing, thy screaming forbear 
I charge you distuib not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Farmark'd wi' courses of clear winding rills ; 
Thei e daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet col in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below. 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ; 
There, oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Af>on, how lofty it glides. 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy water? her snowy feel lave, 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear waT«. 

1 Flow renlly, sweet Afton, among thy green brae*. 
Flow geully, sweet rivtr, ibc iburae at my la/k ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



HI 



My Mary'* »sle«p by the iniirmvirin? stream, 
Clow jeully, d dvee'. Afiou, disturb not her dream. 



BONNIE BELL. 

THE tm'.ling spring comes in rejoicing, 

And Kurly winter grimiy flies : 
Now crystal clear are the falling wateri, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies, 
Fresh o'er the mountains break forth the morning, 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flowery spring leads snnnv summer 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter. 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life ad^'ancing. 

Old Time and nature their changes tell. 
Bill never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



THE UaLLANT WEATER- 

WHERE Cart rins rowin to the sea. 
By mony a flow'r, and spreading tree 
There lives a lad, the lad forme, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine, 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddiesign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land ; 
Bnt to my heart I'll add my hand. 
And gie it to the weaver. 

While birdi rejoice in leafy bowers : 
While bees rejoice in opening flowers : 
While corn grows green in simmer shower*, 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 



LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE ? 

LOUIS, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean ? 
Dyvor. beggar louns tu me, 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let me cwown my love her law. 
And in her breast enthrone me i 

Kings and nations, swilh awa 1 
Reif randies, I disown ye ! 



POR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 
MY heart is sair, I dare na teil, 
My luart is sair for semebody ; 



I could wake a w^nter night 

For the sake o' som.ebody. 

Oh-hon ' for somebody I 

Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 

I could range the world around. 

For the sake o' somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuons Io»e, 

O, sweetly smile on somebody 
Frae ilka danger keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Uh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Ohhey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not? 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 



THE lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and more she cries, alas I 

And ay tlie saut tearblins her e'e : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren ihres. 



Their winding sheet the hluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e 1 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be : 
For mony a heart thou hasl made sair. 

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 



MOTHERS LAMENT FOR THE DEATH Ot 

HER SON. 

TUNE—" Finlayston House." 

FATE save the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my durling's heart ; 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust disnonoiir'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes. 

My age's future shade. 

The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now fond I bare my breast, 
0, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at real 



112 



BURNS' POEMS. 



O MAY, THV MORK, 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sue sweet, 

Ab the mirk uiglu o' December : 
For sparkling was the rosy wine, 

And private was the chamber : 
And dear was siie 1 dare iia name, 

But I will ay remember. 
A?ui dear, Sj-c. 

And here's to them that, like oursel. 

Can push about the jorum ; 
And here's to them that wish us weel, 

May a' that's guid watch o'er them : 
And here's to them, we dare na tell. 

The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's to, Ifc. 



O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN.' 

O, WaT ye wha's in yon town. 

Ye see the e'enin sun upon ? 
The fairest dame 'a in yon town, 

That e'enin sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green ehaw. 
She wanders by yun spreading tree : 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw. 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 

How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year ! 

And doubly welcome^be the spruig. 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
I" Paradise could yield me joy ; 

But eie me Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' rasiing winter rent the air ; 

And ihe a lovely little flower. 

I'hat I wad tent and shelter there. 

O, sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinkin sun's gane down ypon 1 

A fairer ihan's in yon town. 
His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

U angry fate is sworn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 

I caieless quit tught else below. 
But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For whiife life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart. 

And Bhe— as fairest is her form ! 
ab« baslhe truest kuident heart. 



A RED, RED KOSK, 

0,MY luve'slike a red, red ro«t, 
That's newly sprung in J j.ie : 

0,myluve's like the meloi'ie 
That's sweetly play'd in ti.nc. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear. 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear. 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve t 
And fare thee weel a while ! 

And I will come again, my luve, 
Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



A VISION. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower, 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dawy att 
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower. 

And the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was stili, 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant-echoing glens reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa'». 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 

Whase distant roaring swells and fa'a. 

The canid blue north was streaming fonh 
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie diu ; 

Athort '.he lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes. 
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 



Had I a statue been o' stane, 
Hisdarin look had daunted me : 
j And on his bonnetgrav'd was plain, 
The sacred posy — Libertie ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow. 
, Might rous'd the slumbering dead to I 
But oh, it was a tale of wo, 
As ever met a Briton's ear I 

He sang wi' joy his former day. 

He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I wiima v»nlui-'t in my rbyruM. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



113 



COPV 



OF A POETICAL ADDRESS. 



TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLKR, 
With the present of the Bard's Picture. 

REVERED defender of be-xuteous Stuarl, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, 
A name, which to love was the mark of p. true heart. 

But DOW 'tis despised and neglected. 

Tho sonkjthing like moisture conglobes in n^y eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless waiid'rer may well claim a sigh, 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 



Iviy fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to riglit it : 
Those fathers would stmrn their degenerated son, 

That name should he acolfingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for K — G — I most heartily joii., 
The Q, — , and the rest of the gentry, 

Be they wise, be they foolish, is noiiiing of mine ; 
Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of this epocha make such a fuss, 



But loyalty truce ; we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

t send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, • 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye. 

And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 

JTour course to the latest is bright. 



CALEDONIA. 
TUNE—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

THERE was once a day, but old Time then was young, 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line. 
From some of your northarn deities sprung, 

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine ?) 
Prom Tweed to the Orcades was her domain. 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 

And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good, 

A lambkin in peace, bma lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : 



Hergi-andsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, 
" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall 

With tillage or pasture at times s!ie would sport. 

To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn! 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'nle resort, 

Her darling amusemeuv, the hounds ami the horo. 

Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steals 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's stand . 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 

They darken'dtheair,and they plunder'd ihf lauii* 
Their pounces were murder, and terror thei>- ci-y , 

They'd couquer'd and ruin'da world heside ; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy raven took wing from the north , 

The scourge of the seas, and the dreaii ni liie shire ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 

To wanton in carnage and wallow in vT'TB ; 
()'er countries and kingdoms the fury prevail'd. 

No arts could appease them, no arms could repel : 
But brave Caledonia in vain they a^sail'd, 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell 

The Chameleon-savage disturb'd her repose. 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife, 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose. 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life ; 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensangiiin'd the Tweed's silver floods 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his' own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconqner'd, and free. 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run j 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun ; 
Rectangle triangle, the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypotenuse ; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them al- 
ways. 



THE following IPoem was written to a GentleTnan, 
who had sent him a Ne^ospaper, and offered to 
continue it free of Expense. 

KIND Sir, I've read your paper through, 

And faith, to me, 'twas really new 1 

How guessed ye, Sir, what maist 1 wanted 

This mony aday I've grain'd and gaunted. 

To ken what French mischief was brewio ; 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were aoin ; 

That vile doup-skeli«r. Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off : 

Or how coUieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt. 

Would play anither Charles the twall ; 

If Denmark, any body spake o'l ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the lack o't : 

How cut-throat Prussian blads were hlugin, 

How libbet Italy was singiu ; ' 



114 



BURNS» POEMS. 



if Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayia or latrin aught araisa i 

'Jr how our merry lads at hame, 

Ju Britain's court kepi up the game > 

How Royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chaitam Will was livin, 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nievein ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin. 

If Warren Hastings' neck wasyeukin ; 

How cesses, stents and fees were rax'df 

Or if bare a — a yet were tax'd, 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earU, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girl« ; 

If that daft buckie, GeordieW— S, 

Was threshin still at hizzies' tails. 

Or if he was grown oiightlins douser 

And no a perfect kintra cooser, 

A' tixis and mair I never heard of; 

And but for you 1 might despaired of. 

£5o greatfu', back your news 1 send you, 

And pray, a' guid thiuga may attend you, 

EUialand, Monday Morning, 1790. 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRr. 

HAIL, Poeeie I thou Nymph reserv'd ! 
In chabe o' thee, what crowds hae swsrv'd 
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 

'i\Iang heaps o' claverB ; 
And ochl o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd. 

Mid a' thy favourg J 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or man-iage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd sang 

But wi' miscarriage? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives 

Hortaiian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's fiame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballals, Maro's catches : 
Squire Pope hutbusks his skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters t 
I pas3 by hunders, nameli^.ss wretches. 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o* wit and lear 
Win nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly, in its native air 

A rural grace l 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there's ane — a Scottish callan ! 
There's ane ; come iorrit, honest Allan 1 
Tttou needna jouk behiut the hallan, 

A chiel sae cleTer : 



The teeth o' Tii 



may gnaw Tanta'ian, 
Bui '.bou'kfur trt 



Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowdou stream thro' myrtles twine. 

Where Ehilomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines. 

Her griefs will t>iU t 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bounie lasses bleach their claes : 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray. 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' wiichialove, 
That charm that can the strongest quell ; 

The sternest move. 



BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, 
Between the Duke of Argyle and the Farl of Mar* 

" O CAM ye here the fight to shun, 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man i 
Or were ye at the sherra-muir. 

And did the battle sae, man ?" 
I saw the battle, sair and tough. 
And reekin red ran mony a sheugh, 
My heart, for fear, gae sough sough for, 
To hear the thuds, and see the duds, 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan buds, 

Whu glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades 

To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
They rush'd and pusird, and blude outgush'd. 

And mony a bouk did fa', man : 
The great Argyle led on his files, 
I wat they glanced twenty miles ; 
They hack'd and hash'd, while broad pwords cla«h'd, 
Acd thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, 

Till fey-men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philibeg?, 

Andskyrin tprtan irewes, man. 
When in the teeth they dar'd nur whigs, 

And covenant true bines, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large. 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe. 
And thous.inds hasten'd to the charge. 
Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, onto' breath 

They fled like frighted does, man. 

" O how deil Tarn, can thai be true .' 
The chase gaed frae the north, man : 



BIRNS' POEMS. 



15 



I aaw myielf.they did pursue 

The horsemen back: lo Forth, mtn ; 
And ai Dumblane, in my ain sighi, 
They took the brig \vi' a' iheir might, 
Aitii slraught to Stirling wing'd their flight i 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut. 
And mony a huntil, poor red-coat, 
For fear amaist did swarf, mt.n." 

My sister Kate cam up the gate 

Wi' crovvdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; 
Thei- left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their i.eebors' blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o" brose ; all crying woes. 

And sc it goes you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland clans, man ; 
~I fear my lord Fanmure is slain, 

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man : 
Now wad ye singlhis double fight. 
Some ltd for wrang, and some for right } 
Bi!t mony bade the world guld-night ; 
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 
Bv red claymores, and muskets' knell, 
VVi' dying yell, -.he torics fell, 
Aud whigs to hell did fiee, man. 



SKETCH.— NEW- YEAR'S DAY 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

THIS day Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I seethe old, bald-iiated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the uniuijiairVl machine, 
I'o wheel tlie equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 

[n vain assail him with their prayer, 

Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day. 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 

From housew*fe cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow— 

And join with me a moralizing, 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver ? 

" Aiiollu-r year is goi.e fir ever." 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 

"' The passing moment's all we rest ou 1" 

Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 

Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 

Add to our date one minute mors ? 



A few days may — a few years 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

Then is it wise to damp our bliss.' 

Yes — all such reasonings are amiss I 

The voice of nature loudly cries. 

And many a message frjpi theskies, 

That something in us never dies ; 

That on this frail, uncertain state, 

Hang matters of eternal weight ; 

That future life in worlds unknowa 

Must take its hue from this alone ; 

Whether as heavenly glory bright, 

Ordark as misery's wofiil night. — 

Since then, my honour'd, first of friends. 

On this poor being all depends ; 

Let us th' important now employ. 

And live as those that never die. 

Tho" you, with day and honours crown'd. 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight life's sorrow lo repulse, 

A sight pale envy to convulse,) 

tethers now claim your chief regard : 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, on t?ie late Mr. WHfimn .Smelic, 
Author of the Philosophy of Natural Histonj, and 
Member of the Antiquarian and Royal societies of 
Edinburgh. 

To Crochalian came 
Theold cock'd hat, the gray suriout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just ri3i^g in its might, 
Twas four long nights and days to shaving night, 
His uncornbeil grizzly locks wild staring ihatch'd, 
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd. 
Yet tho' his caustic wit, was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



POLITICAL INSCRIPTIONfor an Altar to /.♦ 1 

dependence, at Kerroughty, the Seat cf Mr. Her | 

on; writ teyi in summer, 1735. ' 

THOU of an independant mind, 

Withsoulresolv'd, with soul resign'd ; . 

Prepar'd power's proudest frown to brave. ) 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; ! 

Virtue alone who dost revere, ■ 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, \ , 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. ^ 



SONNET, 



DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ,. 

OP GLEN RIDDLE, APRIL, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more 
Nor pour your descant, grating on my sofl ; 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in tny verdant stolSt 

Mora wslcame wsre to me gi-im Winiw's wildest roar. 



IIS 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Bow can ye charm, ye flow'rs with all your dyes i 
Ye Wow upon the sod that wraps my friend ; 
How can 1 to the lunelul strain aiiejid i 

That strain Puws round tli' untimely tomb where 
Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of wo, 
And sonih the Virtues weeping on this Ivier ; 
The Maiiof Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet ; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



MONODY 



LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd. 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glis- 
ten'd ! 

tfow silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd ! 

if sorrow and anguish their exit await, 
From frienilship and dearest affection reraov'd ; 

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, 
Thou diedst unwept as ihou livedst unlov'd. 

Loves. Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : 
But come, ail ye offspring of folly so true. 

And Bowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, 
We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed ; 

Ejt chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 
For none e'er approach'd herbut ru'd the rash deed. 

We'll Kodpture the marble, we'll measure the lay ; 

Here Vanity slriims on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, 

Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire, 



THE EPITAPH. 

HERE lies, now a prey to insulting neglect 
What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam, 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



ANSWER to a Mnn'^late sent by the Surveyor of the 
Wirulows, Carriages &r. lo e':ch Fanner, order- 
inc hi.-n lo send a signed List of his Horses, Ser- 
vants, Wheel-Carriages, &.C., and whether he was 
a married Man or a Bachelor, and what children 
Ihey had, 

SIR, at your mandate did request, 
I tend jrou here, a faithfu' list, 



My horses, servants, carts, andgraith. 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever di-ew before a jjettle, 
My liand a fore, a guild auld has-been, 
And wight and wilfj' a' his days seen ; 
My hand a hin, a guid brown lilly, 
Wlia alt hae born mc sale fiae Killie, 
And your old borough mony a time. 
In days when riding wasnae crime; 
My fara hin, a guid gray be.ist. 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd ; 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A u-mn'd red wud, Kilburnie blastie. 
For-by a cowt, of cowls the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spar'd to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pnnd at least. 

Wheel carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and iwa are feckly new : 
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token. 
Ae leg and bailli the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle. 
And my auld miiher brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Ruudeils for rantin and for noise ; 
A gadsmanane, a thrasher t'other. 
Wee Davoc bauds the nowte in fothet 
I rule them, as 1 ought, discreetly, 
And often lal)our them completely. 
And ay on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairgelhein tightly. 
Till faith wee Davoc's grown sae gleg. 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,) 
He'll screed you oS effectual calling. 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I'venanein female servant statijn, 

Lordkeepmeay frae a' temjnation; 

I hae nae wife and that my bliss is. 

And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 

Fur weans I'm mair than well contentej, 

Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted ; ^ 

My sonsie, smirking, ilear-bonght Besi, 

She stares the daddie in her face. 

Enough of ought ye like but grace. 

But her, my bonnie, sweet, wee lady 

I've said enough for her already. 

And il ye tax her.or her mither. 

By the L— Dye'seget them a' the§itherl 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 

Nae kind of license out I'm taking. "^ 

Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 

Ere I sae ilear pay for a sadiUe ; 

I've sturdy s'.umps.tlie Lord be thanked t 

And a' my gales on f:>ot I'll shank it. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 

The day and date is under noted ; 

Then know all ye whomit concerns, 

Subscripai huic 

ROBERT BQBMfl. 
Mottgiel, 9Sf2, Feb. 1786. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



117 



SONG. 

NAE gentle dames, tho' e'ersae fair, 
ShalS ever be my iruses"s care ; 
Their lilies a' are einpiy show ; 
Gie me my highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O. 
Aboon Che plain sae rushy, O, 
I set me down wV right good will; 
To sing my highland lassie, O. 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon garrlens fine 1 
The world then the loveshouldknow 
I bear my highland lassie, O, 
TVithin the glen, &c. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
Bui while my crimson currents flow 
I love my highland lassie, O, 
Within the glen, Ifc. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range. 
I know her heart will never cliange. 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow 
My faithful liighland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, Sfc. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore. 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, ^c. 

She has my heart, she has my hand. 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
Till I he mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O ! 
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O! 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my highland lassie, OS 



IMPROMPTU, 



ON MRS. 



'S BIRTH-DAY, 



NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 

OLD Winter with his frosty beard. 
Thus once to Jove his prayer prelen-d ; 
What have I done of all the year. 
To bear tliis hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning. 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

Now. JoTe, for once be mighty civil, 
To counterbalance all this evil ; 



Give me. and I've no more to tay. 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me. 

Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me, 

'Tis done ! says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY 

on, wert thou in the canid Hast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around lliee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom. 

To share it a' to shareit a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desart were a paradise. 

If thou xvert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; 
The brightest jewel in my crown. 

Wad be my queen, wad be ray qnecn. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

MISS JESSY , DUMFRIES ; 

fyjih Books which the Bard presented 

THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair. 
And with them take the poet's prayer; 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kiridliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worlh and sjiotless fame. 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find. 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 



SONNET, written on the "ISth of Jojiuary \'1Q%, the 
Birth-day of the Author, onhearing a Thmsh sing 
in a morning )Valk. 

SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough: 
Sing on, sweet bird, 1 listen to thy strain ; 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blythe carol clears his furrow 'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, 
Sits meek Content with liffht ujianxious heart, 
Welcomes the rajiid moments, bids them part, 

Noraeks if tliey bj-ing au^ln to hope or (ear. 



118 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I thank thee, Author of this opening day : 
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! 
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 

What Wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ; 
Themite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee 
I'il sliare. 



EXTEMPORE, to Mr. S*'E, on refusing to dine 
xtitkhim, after having been promised the first of 
Company, and the first of Cookery ; VlUi December, 
1TC5. 

No mors of your guests, be they titled or not, 

And cook'ry the first in the nation ; 
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 

Is proof to all other temptation. 



7b Mr. S'*E, vith a Present of a Dozen of Porter. 

O, H&d the malt thy strength of mind, 

Or ho|'Sthe flavour of thy wit, 
'Twere drink for first of human kind, 

A gift that e'en for S"e were fit. 



Jeruenlern. Tavern, Dumfries, 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 
TUNE—" Push about the Jorum."— ^jarii, 1795. 

DORS haughty Gaul invasion threat? 

Then let ilie loons beware, Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
Tlie Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criffel sink in SoUvay, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

Fall dc rail, ^c. 



O let us not like snarling tykes 

[n wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang outsels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs he righted, 
Fall de rail, ^-e 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 
Perhaps a claut may tail in't ; 

But deil a foreign tinkler loun 
Shall ever ca' a nail hi't. 

Our fathers' bluidlhe kettle bought, 
And wha wad dare tosuoil it ) 



By heaven the sncriledmis do? 
Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fall de rail, tre. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-liorn brother, 
Who would set the mnb aboon the throne. 

May they bedamn'd together ! 
Who will not sing, " God save the King," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, " God saye the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 



POEM, 



ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECT 
OR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 17S6. 

FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikledeil 

Wi' a' his witchet 
Ai e at it, skelpin, jig and reel, 

In my poor pouchei. 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 

Tha.1 one pound one, I sairly want it: 

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would b,-. kind; 
And while my heart wi' lil'e-blo id duntcl, 

rd bear'tin mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loaniii 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

Tlie hale design. 

POSTCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loun I he gat me by the fecket. 

And Fair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket. 

And tura'd a neuk. 

But by that health I've got a iihareo't, 
And by tliat life, I'm promis'd mair o'l. 
My hale and weel I'll take a care o'l 

A teniisj- way ; 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye« 



Sent to a Gentleman whom he had offended 

THE fnend whom wild from wisdom's way 
The fumes if wine iiifu-'iaieoend ; 

(Not moony madness more astray) 
Who but deplores that haple«i Iriend? 



BURNS' POEMS. 



U9 



Bfine was th' tn«en»ate frinzied part, 
Ah why should \ such scenes outlive I 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart! 
'Ti» thine to pity and forgive. 



POEM ON LIFE. 

AD1'*RESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER. 
DUMFUIKS, 1796. 

MYhonour'd colonel, deep I feel 
Yourinlerest in the 1 oet's weal ; 
Ab 1 now sma' bearl bae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare It ; 

And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve : 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
-And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Ay wavering like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld .Satan, 
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' fel&n ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'li ne'er cast sau ton, 

He's offlike fire 

Ah Nick 1 ah Nick I it is na fair, 
First showing us the templing ware, 
Bright 'fines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizr.es by. 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld Jairin'd elLow yeuks wi' jov. 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Alruady in thy fancy's eye. 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon, heels n'ergowdie ! in he gangs. 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs. 
They giniiaglaugii enjoys liis pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind, he hanas 

A gibbet's tassel. 

But lest you think 1 am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuri>iga' iBtetilionB «vil, 

1 quat my pen : 



The Lord preserve us fro the devil ! 

Amen I amen ' 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACH. 

Rrr curse upon thy venom'd stang. 
That shoots my tortur'dgums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance { 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang. 

Like racking engines I 

When fevers burn, or ague freeres, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cliolic fqueezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympatliy may ease JS, 

Wi' piiyiiigmoaa ; 
But thee — thou Leil o' a' diseases, 

Ay mocks our groan 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle I 
1 ihrow the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the (ire the gigleis keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

O' a' the num'rotis human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools. 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mnoU, 

Sad sight to see I 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Wlience a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell. 

In dreadfu' raw. 
Thou, Tooth-ach, surely bear'st the hell 

Amang them a' ! 

O thou grim, mischief-making chie!. 
That gars the notes ii{ discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ;— 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A tow>iicad'aTco'.h-ach 



TUNE— " Morag. » 

O WHA is she that lo'es me. 
And has my heart a-keeping ? 

O sweei is she that io'es me. 
As dews o' simmer weej.'ing, 
lu tears the rose-buds steeping. 

CHORUS. 

O that''s the lassie o' my heart. 
My lassiti ever dearer ; 

O t?ui.Vg the queen o' womntikineL, 
JMne'erff ane to peer kir. 



BURNb' POEMS. 



If thou shalt meet a lassie, 

In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 
Jire while thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 
O that's, Src 

If thou hadst heard her talking. 
And thy attentions plighted 

That ilka body talking, 
But her by thee is slighted 
And thou art all delighted. 
O that's, ^c. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one. 
But her thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken-hearted.— 
Othat's,lfc. 



SONG. 

JOCKEY'S ta'en the parting kiss. 
O'er the mountains he isgane ; 
And with him is a' my bliss, 
Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw. 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 

When the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blithe his waukening be I 

He will think on her he loves. 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves. 
Jockey's heart is still athame. 



SONG. 

MY Peggy's face, my Peggy'sform, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air. 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair. 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye. 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look, that rage disarms, 
These aire all immortal charms. 



WRITTEN in a Wrapper enclofi.ng n Latttr to C«t>t, 
Grose, to be Left with Mr. Cardonnel, Anltquaru^tm 

TUNE—" Sir John Malcolm. 

KEN ye ought o' Captain Grose? 

Igo, S,- ago, . 
If he's amanghis friends or foes ? 
Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North ? 

Igo, !f ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 
Ira7n, coram, dago. 

Is he slain Ly Highland bodies ? 

Igo, & ago, 
And eaten like a weather-haggis 
Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, Sfago, 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? 
Iram, coram,, dago. 



Where'er he be, the Lord be near hla> i 

Igo, Srago, 
As for the deil, he daur na steer him. 
Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' enclosed letter. 

Igo, & ago. 
Which will oblige your humble debtor. 
Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanesin store. 

Igo, If ago. 
The very stanes that Adam bore. 
Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get In glad possession, 

Igo, 4 ago. 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 
Iram, coram, dago. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ, 
OF FINTRY, 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOtTH 

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard tha : feigns ; 
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness evernew. 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bountv e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me along your wandering spheret 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 



.121 



EHTAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As eVr God with his image biest ; 
The friend of msutj •.kt Irieiid of truth: 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Pew hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd ; 
rf there's another world, he lires in bliss : 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 
O THOU, who kindly dost provide ' 

For every crsature's want ! 
We biesR thee, God of Nature wide. 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And, if it please thee, Heavenly Gnide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted, or denied, 

Lord blebs us with content ! 
Amen I 



n noj dear and much honoured Friend, 
Mrg. Dunlop, of Dunlop, 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

8ENSIBTL1TY, how charming, 
TVtOM, my friend, canal truly tell ; 
in distress with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well I 

Fairest flower, behold the lily. 

Blooming in the sunny ray : 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley 

See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest. 

Telling o'er his little joys ; 
Hapless tiird I a prey the surest. 

To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearlv buiieh^ the hidden treasure, 
riuerlMim^ can bestow ; 



Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasura 
Thrill the cteepest notisof wo. 



A VERSE crmposed and repeated by Burnt to th$ 
Master of the House, on taking leave at a Place in 
the Highlands, where he had been hospitably entMV 
tained, 

WHEN death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A Lime thai surely shall come ; 
In Heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE 

SCENES of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 

Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloamin. 

Fare thee weel before t gang ! 
Bonny Doon, whare early roaming. 

First I weav'd the rustic sang! 

Bowers, adieu, whare I^ove, decoyinf?. 
First enthrall'd this heart o' mine. 

There the safest sweets enjoving, — 
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall vyne t 

Friends, so near my bosom ever. 
Ye hae render'd moments dear ! 

But alas ! when forc'd to severe, 
Then the Stroke, O, how severe ! 

Friends ! that parting tear reseri^e it 

Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me t 
Could I think I did deserve it. 

How much happier would 1 oe I 

Scenes of wo and scenes oif jAeasare, 
Scenes that former thoughts renan 

Scenes of wo and scenes of u.eaaur* 
N Qw a sad and last adle<i / 



MISCELIiANEOUS POETRY, 

SELECTED FROM 
OP 

HOBBRT BURNS, 

FIRST PUBLISH CD BY R. H. CROMEK. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK. 



AtTLll ehuckie Reekie's" sair distrest, 
Down Aroc.ys her aiice weel burnislil crest, 
Nae joy ber buuii'e buskel iiesl 

Can yield ava, 
Rer darling bird that she lo'es best, 

Willie's awa I 

II. 

O Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' lliinRs an unco slight ; 
luld R(,el{ie ay he keepil lijzlit, 

Anil tri? an' braw l 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 

Willie's awa! 



Ill 



Thfcstifletto'thenia'he bow'd, 
The banklestc' them a' he cow 'd ; 
They durst uae mair than he allow'd, 

That was n lawt 
We're lost a birkie weel woi ih gowd, 

VVi'iie'e awa I 

IV. 

Now gawkies. tawpies, gowks and fools, 
Fra colleges and hoarding schools, 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools, 

In glen or shaw t 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Wi'Iie's awa. 



Edinburgh. 



* Tn« Chamber of Commerce of Edinburgh, 
VMch Mr. C. was Secrei ary. 



The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer* 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clacour ^ 
He was a dictiouar and grammar 

Amangthema' I 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 

Willie's awa I 

VI. 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Fhiloso|)liers and Foels pnur, * 
And toothy critics by the score. 

In bloody raw! 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's f.wa t 

VII. 

Xow wortYiy G y's latin fac», 

T**"r's and G***** s modest graces 

Mr' K'*"e, S'"*t, such a brace 

As Rome ne'er MV I 
They a' maun meet some iiher place, 

Willie's awa I 

VIII 

Poor Burns — t en Scotch drink canna qatclrnkf 
He cheeps like some bewiider'd chicken, 
Scar'd frae its miiuiie and the rleckin 

By hoodv-craw ; 
Griors glen his heart an ui>r)o kickin, 

Willie's awi t 

IX. 

Vow ev'ry sour-mou'd grinnin' bielhim, 
And Calvin's fock are fit to fell hUn : 



* Many literary eentleman were accu 
nMet at Mr C — 's house ai breaxiasi. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



123 



And Mlf-«onceited crillc akelUim 

His quiil may draw | 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie'a awa J 



Dp 'wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Kden scenes on crystal Jert, 
Aud Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw j 
Cut eTery joy aud pleasure's fled, 

Willie's awa I 

XI. 

May I be slander's common speech i 
A text for infamy to preacii ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 
Ii 



When 1 forget thee ! Willie Creech, 

- Tho' far awa I 



XII. 

May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him I 
Untilapow aiauid's Mathusalem ! 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed, New Jei naalem, 

fleet wing awa I 



A FRAGMENT. 

THEE, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song. 

To tnee 1 turn with swimming ejes ; 
Where is that soul o'' freedom fied .'' 
Jmmingled with the nus^nly dead ! 

Beneath that hallowed lurf where Wallace Iie»l 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of ileathi 

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero'5 sleeji, 
Nor give the coward secret breath — 

Is this the power in iVeeriom's war 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's pro'idesi bearing. 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Braved usurpation's boMest daring ! 
One queiich'd in darkness like the sinking star. 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age. 



ELEGY 

ON THE DSATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. 

Now Robin lies in his last lair, 
Bft'D.|;abble rbyrae, nor sing nae mair, 

• iZufMpXMis- a play on hii <twn paiH9. 



Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankerl care 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom faslit him ; 
f^xcepl the noment that they crusiil liim ; 
For Bune as chance or iate had hushl 'em 

'J'ho' e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or sang he la?lit 'em, 

And thought it sport.— 

Tho' he was bred to Kintra wark, 

And counted was baith wight and stark. 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him, he was learn 'd anrl dark. 

Ye rous'd him then ! 



COMIN THRO' THE RYE. 

Comin thro' the rye, poor body, 

Comin thro' the rye, 
She draigl'i a' her peiiicoatie 
Comin thro' the rye. 

Oh Jeiuiy's a' weet, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry : 
She draigl't a' her petticoatie 
Comin thro' the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin thro' the rye. 
Gin a body kisS a body, 

Keed a body cry. 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, &c. 



Gin a body meet a body 

Comin thro' the glen ; 
Gin a body kiss a bo-'.y. 

Need the warlil ken, 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, &C. 



THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES.* 

YE sons of sedition, give ear to my song, 
Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwei!, pervade every thron4 
With Craken, the attorney, and Mundell the quack. 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. 



BURNS— ^jrrempors. 

YE true " Loyal Native^," attend to my song, 
In uproar and riot rejoice the niuht long ; 

• At this period of our Poet's life when political an- 
imosity was made the ground cf pnvaie -^'^arrt^l. the 
above foolish verses were sent as an aitacn on Burns 
and his friends for their political opii.ions. They were 
written by some member of a club styling themselves 
the Loyal Natives of Dumfries, or rather by the united 
genius of that club, which was more distinguished for 
drunken loyalty, than either for respectability or poet- 
ical talent. The verses were handed over the table to 
Birrns at a convivial meeiing, and he instantly endort 
ed the tubjomeU roply. Reiiguet, p. Itt. 



124 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Vrem enwand hatred your sorpg is exempt ; 

Bat where is your shield f roio the dart of contempt ! 



TO J. LAIPRAIK. 

Sept. nth. 1785. 
GUID speed an' furdiir to you Johnie, 
Gnid health, halehan'*, and weather bonnie ; 
Now when ye're nicKandown fu' cannie 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brandy 

To clear your head 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs. 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin tlie stuff o'er muirs an' haggs 

Like drivin wrack ; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'mbizrie too, an' skelpin at it, 

But bitter, daudin showers liae wat it, 

Sae my old stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' mucklfl wark. 
An' took my Jocleleg an whatt it, 

Likeony elerk. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
Foryoui braw, nameless, datcJess letter, 
Abusin me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men. 
While deil a hair yoursel ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

Bullet the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help orroose ns. 
But browster wives and whiskie stills. 

They are the muses. 

Vour friendship, Sir, I winna quat it. 

An' if ye mak objections at it. 

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, 

An' witness take 
An' when wi' usquebae we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
An' a' the vittel in the yard, 

An' theckit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspiring aqua-vitae 

Shall make us haith sae blithe an' witty, 

Till ye forget ye're auld au' gatty, 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than ihretty. 

Sweet ane an' twenty I 

%ff trtoolrs are enwpet wi' the blast. 
An' n«)w the sim keeks in the west. 



Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanter, 
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste. 

Yours, Rab the Ranter. 



TO THE REV. JOHN m'mATH. 

ENCLOSING A COPY OP HOLY WILLIE'S 
PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD REaUESTED. 

Sept. 17th, 1785. 

WHILE at the stock the shearers cow'r 
To shun the bitter blaudin show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin scow'r 

To pass the time. 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's dene it, 

Lest they should blame het 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it 

And anathember. 

I own 'twas rash an' rather hardy, 
That I, a simple, kinira bardie, 
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken a>e, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse h-U upon me. 

Out I gae mad at their grimaces, 

Their sighan, cantan graLe-prood faces, 

Their three mile 4)rayers, an' hauf-mUe graces, 

Tlieir raxan conscience, 
Wnase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces, 

Waur nor their nontenM. 

There's Gaun, * miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast. 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't bim ; 
An' may a bard no crack hisjesi [Mm. 

Wiiat way they've ase't 

See him t the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed. 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skellnms. 
An' not amuse erect her head 

To cowe the blelUims ? 

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 

An' tell aloud 

* Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 

t The poet hag introduced the two first lines of th« 
stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr HamU- 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Tharjugglinhocus-pocui arts 

To clieat the crowd, 

Goi knows, I'm no the thing I should be, 
Nor am I evea ths thing t could be, 
But twenty times, I rather would be, 

An' atheist clean. 
Than under gospel colours hid be. 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest raan may like a lass. 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause, 

He'll still disdain, 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws. 

Like some we ken ; 

They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace an' truth. 
For what ? to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an ruth, 

To ruin streight. 

All hail. Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine. 
Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thfie ; 
To stigmatize false friends of thme 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotcht an' foulwi' mony a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train, 

With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those, 
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 

In spite of foes : 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs. 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 

O Ayr, my dear, my native ground, 
Within Ihy presbylereal bound 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as christians too renow'd. 

An' manly preachers. 

Sir, m that circle you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd 

(Which gies you honour) 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
Au' if impeninenl I've been, . 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane [ye, 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

MAUCHLINK. 

(RECOMMENDING A BOY.) 

Mosgaville, Mm/, 3 3 

I HOLD i. Sir, my boundenduty 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Aj'.as, Laird M'Gaun,* 
Was here to hire yon lad away 
Bout whom ye spake the lither day, 

An' wad hae don't afl" han' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As faith I mnckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin out auld crummie's nicks, 

An' tellin lies about them ; 

As lie ve then I'd have then, 
Your clerkship he should BaiTf 

If sae be, ye maybe 
Not fitted otherwhere. 

Aitho' I say't, he's gieg enough. 
An' bout a house that's rude au' rough. 
The boy might learn to sujsar/ 
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught. 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I hae na ony fear. 
Ye'U catechize him every quirk. 

An' shore him well wi' hell } 

An' gare him follow to the kirk 

— Ay when ye gang yoursel. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin Friday, 
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 
The orders wi' your ddy. 

My word of honour Ihaegien, 
In Paisley John's that night at e'en, 

To meet the 'A'arld^s worm I 
To try to get the twa to gree. 
An' name the airles an' the fee. 

In legal mode an' form : 
I ken he weel a Snick ca.x\ draw, 

When simple bodies let him ; 
An' if a Devil be at a'. 

In faith he's sure to get him. 

To phrase you an' praise you, 

Ye kenyou,Laureat scorns: 

The prayer siill, you snare stili. 

Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



* Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline ; a dealer 
in Cows. Il was hiscommoM practice to cut the nicki 
or markings from tlie horns u'" c;iui ;, lo disgjiise tlieii 
age. — He Wiis an artful irick conlriviiig cliurac'.er ; 
hence he is called a Snick-d rower. In the i oet's " Ad 
dress to the Deil," he styl^; that august persuiiag- 
an auld, snick-drawing dog I 

Religues, p. 397. 



126 



BURNS' POEMS. 



TO MR. M'ADAM 

OP GRAIG EN-GILL AN. 

In answer to an obliging Letter he sent in the com 
mencement o^ •''<^ ^oetic Career, 

SIR. o'er a gill I gat your caru, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
See wha talcs notice o' tiit bard 1 

I lap auG cry'd fu' loud. 

No\K-deii-ma-care about their jaw, 

Tlie senseless, gawky million ; 
I'll cock my noseaboon them a', 

I'm roos'd by Craigen-GiUan 1 

'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel, 

To gi'eat your high protection : 
A great man's smile ye kenfu' well, 

Is ay a blest infection. 

Tho ', by his banes wlia in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy t 
On my ain legs thro' dirt aii' dub, 

I Uitiependent stand ay. — 

And when those legs toguid warm kail, 

\Vi' welcome canna bear me J 
A le*" dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 

And barley-scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

O' mony flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonriie lasses baith, 

I'm tald the're loosome kimmei-s I 

And God biesa young Dunaskin'a laird. 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld mans beard 

A credit to his country. 

TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 

GLENRIDDEL. 

{Extempore Lines on returning a Newspaper.) 

Ellialand, Monday Evening. 

YOUR news and review, Sir, I've read through and 
tlirough, Sir, 

With little admiring or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign. 

No inuruerers or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the reviewers, those chippers and hewers. 

Are judges of mortar and stone. Sir, 
But vf meit, or unmeet, in a Jabrick complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is, to tell all your goodnesi 

Uestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God r had one like abeam of the sun, 

Aud then all the world, Sir, should know il I 



TERRAUGHTY,* 

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 

HEALTH to the MaxweUs' vet'ran Chief 1 
neallh, ay unsuur'd by care cr grief : 
Inspir'd, 1 turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf. 

This natal mom, 
I see thy life is stufTo' prief. 

Scat ce quite half worn.— « 

This day thou metes threescore eleven. 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckles view wi' sorrow, 

Thy lengihen'd days on this blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang-teelh'd harrow. 

Nine miles an hour. 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In bruustane stoure-- 

But for thy triends, and they are mony, 
B lith honest men and lasses bonnie, 
May coulhie fortune, kind ant! cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings lunny 

Bless them and thee I 

Pareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daur na steer ye : 
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye, 

For me, sliam-e fa' mo> 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye. 

While Burns they ca'io* 



TO A LADY; 
With a Present of a Pair of Drinking- Glattu 

FAIR Empre-8 of the Poet's soul. 

And (^ueen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses.— 

And fill them high with generous juice. 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast— 

" The whole of human kind i" 

«' To these who lone us /"—second fill ; 

But not to those whom, we lovs ; 
Lest we love those who love not us ! 

A third-" to thee and me, love I" 

* Mr. Maxwell, of Tsrraughty, ucor DumCrin. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



127 



THE VOWELS. 

A TALE. 

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are plied 

The cnisy domicile of pedant pride ; 

Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, 

And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 

Upon a time, Sir Abeco the great, 

In all his pedagogic powers elate 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 

And call the trembling vowels lo account. 

First enter'd A a grave, broad, solemn wight 
But, ah I deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai ! 

Reluctant E, stalk'd in ; with piteous grace 
Thejustling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That iiame, that well-worn name, and all his own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman so-ind 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next the title foUov^-ing close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

Thecohweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y I 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdaiii'd, reply ; 
The pedant swunf his felon cudgel round. 
And knocK'd the groaning vowel to the ground 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despL-.iring wo ; 
Th' Incjuisilor of Spain the most expert, 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art : 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew 1 i 

At trembling U stood starmg all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infant's tears he dipp'd his right, 
Bapliz'd him eu, aud kick'd him from his sight. 



SKETCH.* 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the street*, 
Better than e'er the fairest she he nieeta, 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour. 
Learn 'd vive la bagatelle, el vive V amour ; 
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood : 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 

* This sketch seems to be one of a Series, intended 
for a projected work, under the title " TAfi Pnet's 
Prosress." I^his character vpas sent as a specimen, 
accon-ipanied by a letter lo Professor Dugald Stewart, 
hi which it is thus noticed. " The fragment beginning 
A little, upright, ■pert, tart, &c. 1 have not shown to 
any man living, till 1 now send it to you. it forms the 
postnlala, the axioms, tlie definition of a character, 
which, if it appear at all, alia I! lie placed in a variety of 
ighu. This particular pari 1 send you merely as a 
ample of n»y hand at portrait sketciiing." 



His solid 9en»e— by inches you must tell. 
But mete his cunning by tlie old -Scots r'l ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend. 
Still making work his selAsh craft must mend. 



SCOTS PROLOGUE, 

For Mr. Sutherland^ n Benefit Night, Dumfrie*. 

WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lof-'on, 
How this new play an' thai new sang is comin i" 
Why is outlandish stufl sae meikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when impe«'ted ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame. 
Will try lo gie us sangs and plays at hame * 
For comedy abroad he need na toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Roirie and Greece 
Togather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. — 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how, hapless, fell ? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath"d ths sword 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin f 
O for a Shaks'peare or an Otway scene. 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Q,ue?,n I 
Vain all th' omnijiotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion'^ arrai. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil^ 
As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 
One Douglas livrs in Home's immortal page. 
But Douglases were heroes every age : 
And tha' your fathers, prodigal of hfe, 
A Douglas followed to the martial strife, 
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds. 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas lead ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would take the muses' servants by the hand ; 
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them. 
And where ye justly can commend, commend them. 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test. 
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best I 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation. 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
Aud warsle time an' lay him on his back ! 

For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
•' Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle nere ?' ■ 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 
We have the honour to belong lo you ! 
We're yourown bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 
But like good milhers, shore before ye strike,— 
Andgralefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've gotfra» a' professious. sets and ranks : 
Go'l jelf ^» ! we're bu» poor — ye'se gei t 



129 



BURNS' POEMS. 



EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION 
ON BEING 

APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

SEARCHING auld wives' barrels 

Och, ho i the day ! 
That clariy barm should stain my laurels 

But — what '11 ye say 1 
These muvin' things ca'd wives and weani 
Wad muve the very heart's o' stanea ! 



On seeing tne beautiful Seat of Lard G, 

W HAT dost thou in that mansion fair 1 

Flit, G , and find 

Some narrovir, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind 1 



On the Same, 

No Stewart art thou G , 

The Slewarts all were brave ; 

Besides, the Stewarts were balfooU, 
Not one of them a knave. 



On the Same. 

BRIGHT ran thy line, G , 

Thro' many a far-fam'd sire 1 

So ran the far-fani'd Roman way, 
So ended in a mire. 



To the Same, on the Author being threatened uith 
his Resentment. 

SPARE me thy vengeance, G , 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at Ihy hand. 
For thou hast none to ^ive. 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 

A NEW BALLAD. 
TUNE—-' The Dragon of Wanlley." 
DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Laiigside saw, 

For beauteous, hapless Mary : 
But Scot w-th Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen, Sir, 
Thau 'twixt hid and Bob for the famous job^ 

Who should be Faculty's Dean. Sir.— 



This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, 
Among the first was number'd ; 

But |.iou8 Bob, 'mid learning's store, 
Cunmapdraeot tenth rememember'd.' 



Yet simple Bob the victory got. 

And won his heart's desire 
Which shows that heaven can boil the pod 

Though the devil p— s in the fire.— 

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case, 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the Faculty, 

Q,uite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Chose 01 i who should owe it all, d'ye »e9 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Rob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet. 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam.— 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OP SESSION. 

TUNE— '« Gillicrankie." 

LORD A TE. 

HE clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist, 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for 't, he graped for 't. 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what in common sense came short. 

He eked out wi' iaw, man. 



MR. ER— NE. 

Collected Harry stood awee. 

Then open'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruetii' e'e. 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man ] 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail. 

Or torrents owre a lin, man ; 
The Bench sae wise lift up their eye* 

Half-waukeu'd wi' the din, man. 



VERSES TO J. UANKE>f. 

[ TTie Person to whom his Poem on shooting tk* i 

ridge is addressed, while Ranlcen occupitd 
Farm of Adamliill, in Ayrshire.^ 



AE day, as death, that gruesome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warl 
A mixtie maxtie motley squad. 
And mony a guilt bespoited lad ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



129 



'ilack ecwiisof each denomiiiatiou, 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
Tu him that winties in a halter : 
Asham'd himseii'to see the wretches. 
He mutters, glow'rin at the bitches, 
" By ti-d I'll not be seen behintthem, 
Nor 'niang the sp'ritual core present them, 
. ithout, at least ae honest man, 

To grace this d d infernal clan." 

""y Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L— D G-d !" quoth he, " I have it now 
There's just the man I want, in faith," 
And quickly stoppit Rankeji's breath. 



On hearing tliat there was Falsehood in the Rev. 
Dr. B—^'s very Looks. 

THAT «here is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
They say their master is a knave— 

And sure they do not lie. 



On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire. 



HERE lie Willie M— hie's banes, 
O Satan, when ye tak him, 

tiie him the schulin of your weans ; 
For clever Deils he'll mak em ! 



ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 
{A Parody on Robin Adair.) 

VOU'RE welcome to Despots, Diimourier y 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier.— 

How does Dampiere do ! 

Ay, and BournonviUe too? 

Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier .' 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier. — 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier : — 

I will fight France with you, 

I will take my chance with you ; 

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then lei us fight about. 

Till freedom's spark is out. 

Then we'll be d-mned no doubt — Dumourier. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 
A SKRTCH. 
FOR Lords or Kings I dliuui mourr, 
l£'«u let ihein die — for that lUey 'rj burn : 



But oh ! prodieious to reflec ! 
A Tow?nont, Sirs, is gane to wreck I 
O liighty-eight, in tliy sma' space 
What dire events hae taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us J 
In whatapickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
Thetulzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks ; 
The taneisgame, a bluidie devil. 
But to the hen birds unco civil ; 
The tither's something dour o' treadin. 
But better stuflF ne'er claw'd a midden — 

Ye ministers, come moimt the poupet, 
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet, 
For Eighty-eight, he wish'd you weel, 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'enmonya plack, and mony a' peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ' 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een. 
For some o' you hae tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'U ne'er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very nowt aa' sheep. 
How dowf and dowie now they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, 
For E'nbrugh wells are gruttendry. 

Eighty-nine, thoti's but a bairn, 
An' no o'er ai-.ld, I hope to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, 
Thou now has gel thy Daddy's chair. 

Nae hand-cufTd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd Recent, 

But, like himsel a full free agent. 

Be sure ye follow out the plan 

Nae waur than he did, honest man ; 

As muckle better as you can. 

January 1, 17S9. 



Written under the Portrait of Fergusson. the Pnrt, 
in a copy of that authnr's works presented to a 
young Lady in Edinburgh, March 19, 1787. 

CURSE on ungrateful man, that car h$ pleaa'd. 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure I 
O thou my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate 1 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



F 2 



130 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SONGS. 



UP IN THF MORNING EARLY. 

UP in the moming^s no for me, 

Up in the Tnornbig early ; 
When a' the hills are covered wV snow, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

COLD blaw's the wind ft-ae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and slirill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely; 
And lang's the night Irae e'en to morn, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Up in the morning, (fC. 



1 DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE 
SPRlNGING.t 

I DREAM'D I lay where flowers were springing, 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
List'iiing to the wild birds singing. 

By a falling, crystal stream .; 
Straighi the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arras "' -e warring 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning. 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd ; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming 

A'myflow'ry bliss destroy'd. 
Th"' fickle fortune has deceived me. 

She promis'd fair, and perform'd bat ill ; 
Of mony a jny and hope bereav'dme, 

1 bear a heart shall support me still. 



S0NG4 

BEWARE 0' BONNIE ANN. 

Ye gallants bright 1 red you right, 
Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 

• The chorus is old. 

t These two stanzaa I composed when I was seven- 
teen, and are among the oldest of my printed pieces. 
Bums' Reliquee, p. 242. 



Her comely face sae fu' o'grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night. 

Her skin is hke the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd her gently waist 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant more. 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering arm*. 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The ci ptive bands may chain the haudi. 

But 'ove enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red ye a' 

Beware o' bonnie Ana. 



SONG. 
MY BONNIE MARY.* 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it m a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar. 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, 

It's leavnig thee, iu> bonnie Mary, 



SONG, 
THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 

THERE'S a youth in this city, it were a great pity 

That he from our lasses should wander awa ; 
For he's bonuie and braw, weel-favour'd with a' 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnetsaeblue ; 

His fecket is white as the new-dnven snaw: 
His hose they are blae, and liisshoon like the slae, 

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle ub a' 
His coat is the hue, &c. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courlin 
Weel ftatur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and 
braw : 



• This air is Oswold ; 
iigis old. 



the first half at 



1 1 composed tills son? out of compliment to Miss Ann j.^,.- ■ ■ t ■ j u -kt \ n v n t. u 

Mastenon, the da agluer of mv friend Allan Masterton, , + T^his air is clamed by Nie\ Gow, who <Hli H hU 

the author of the air of Strathallan's Lament, and two '^""='." "'" ^'^ brother. The first haL'^'Antn *. m« 

•rtbreeothersiii this work. iJi*rnjj' fieiiyMee, p. 266. """S 's om. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



131 



But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 
The peunie's tne jewel that beautifies a'. — 

i here's Meg wi' the inailen, that fain wad a haen 
him, 
And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha' ; 

There's lang-tocnei-'d Nancy maist fetters his fancy, 

—But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a' 



MY flEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.* 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 

My heart's in the Highland's a-chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roc, 

My hean's in the Highlands whei-ever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North 

The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 

The lulls of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mouniains high covered with snow ; 

Farewell to the straths and green valleys below : 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 

Farewell to the torrents and loud pounng floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here. 

My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 

My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 



THE RANTING DOG THE DADDIE O'T. 

O WHa my babie-clouts will buy ? 

Wha will tent me when [ cry? 
Wha will loss me wliare I lie ? 

The rantin dog the daddie o't.— 

Wha will own he did the faut ? 

Wha will buy my groanin-maut? 
Wha will tell me how to ca't ? 

The rantiu dog the daddie o't. 

When I mount the cree pie-chair, 

Wha will sit beside m" there ? 
Gie me Rob, 1 seek nae mair, 

The ranting dog the daddie 3't.— 

Wha will crack to me ray lane ? 

Wha will mak me fidgin fain ? 
Wha will kiss me o'er pgain ? 

The rantiu dog the daddie o't.— 



SONG. 

I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 
DO confess thou art sae fair, 
1 wad n?en o'er the lugs in luve ; 

• The first half stanza Isold. 



Had I na foun • ')e slightest prayer 

That lips could speak, tliy heart could 1 

I do confecs thee sweet, but find 
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 

thy favours ar e silly wind 
That kisse' ilh„ thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 
Amang its native briers sae coy 

How sune it tines its scent and hue 
When pu'd and worn a common toy I 

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gayly bloom a while ; 

Yet sune thou shall be thrown aside, 
Like ony common weed and vile. 



SONG.* 
TUNE— "Craigie-b"ruWood."T 
Bc'ond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 
And Oto be lying beyond thee, 

sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep. 
That's laid in the bed beyond thee, 

SWEET closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood 

And blilhly awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the Craigi>Qurn woinj 

Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 

Beyond th'^e. S^c. 

I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 

1 hear the wild birds singing ; 
But pleasure they hae nane for me. 

While care my heart is wringing. 

Beyojid thee, ife 

I canna tell, I maunna tell, 

I dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

Beyond thee, SfC, 

I seethe gracefu', straight and tall, 

I see thee sweet and bonuie. 
But oh, what will my torments be. 

If thou refuse thy Johnie ! 

Beyond thee, !fC, 

To see thee in anither's arms, 

In love to lie and languish, 
'Twad be ray dead, that will be seen. 

My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 

Beyo-nd thee, IfC. 

* It is remarkable of this place that it is the confine 
of that country where the greatest part of our Lowland 
music (so far from the title, works, &c. we can local- 
ize it) has been composed. From Craigie-burn, n-^ar 
Mofl'at, until one reaches the West Highlands, we bars 
scarcely one slow air of any antiquity. 

The songwas composed on a passion which a Mr. 
Gillespie, a particular friend of mine had for a Miss 
Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelp(!ale. The young 
lady was born at Craigie-burn-wood. — The chorus is 
part of an old foolish ballaJ. 

Burns'' Reli^ques, p. 'ifV,. 

t The chorus is old.— Ancther copy of this wuJ M 
found ante, p. 101 



132 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Bat Jeanie, say ' .ou wilt be mine, 
bay, '.hou lo'e- nane before me ; 

And a' my days o' life to come 
I '11 gratefully adore thee. 

Beyond thee, fyc 



SONG. 

YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

YON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to 

feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. 
Where the grouse, Sec. 

Not Cowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, 
To nici hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors ; 
For ihere, by a Uiiely, and sequesler'd stream, 
Besides a sweet lassie, my ihoii°ht and my dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains Shall still be my path. 
Ilk stream foaming dov/n its ain green, narrow stiath; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove. 
While o'er us unheeded fly the swift hours o' love. 

She is not the fairest, aliho' she is fair ; 
t ) ' nice education but sma' in her share : 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
Rut 1 lo'e the dear lassie Jsecause she lo'es me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize. 
In her amour of glances, and blushes, and sighs ; 
And when wit and refini>ment ha' polished her darta. 
They dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e'e. 
Has lustre outshinine the diamond to me ; 
And the heart-bealitig love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms, 
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms. 



Here this night if ye i 

I'll remain, quo' Fiurtlay ; 
I dread ye'U learn the gate again ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay, 
What may pass within this bower. 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye maun conceal till your last hour ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Fuidlay I 



SONH. 

WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR: 

WHA is that at my bnwerdoor.' 

wha is it but Findlay; 
Then gae your gate ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun l,qiu)' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay; 
Before the morn ye'U work mischief? 

Indeed will 1, quo' Findlay, 

Gif I rise and let you in ? 

Let me in, quo' Findlay: 
Ye'il keep me waukm wi' your din ; 

Indeed will 1, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay ? 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; 
fear ye'U Dide till break o' Jay ; 

indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 



SONG.* 

TUNE—" The Weaver and his Shuttle, O." 

MY Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border, O 

And carefully he bred me in decency and order, U 

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a far* 

thing, O 
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth 

regarding, O. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine. O 

The' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great waj 
charming, O 

My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet my edu- 
cation ; O 

Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, O. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's fa- 
vour ; O 

Some cause unseen, still slept between, to frustrate 
each endeavour ; O 

Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd : sometimei by 
friends forsaken : O 

And when my hope was at the top, I still was worat 
mistaken, O. 

I Then sore harass'd. and tir'd at last, with fortune'* 

vain delusion ; O 
I I dropt ray schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this 
I conclusion ; O 

I The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good ur ill 
I untried ; O 

I But the present hour was in mypow'r, and so I would 
j enjoy it, 0. 

I No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor person to be- 
] friend me ; n 

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to su* 

tani me, O 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, ray father bred 

me early ; O 
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for for- 
tune fairly, (). 

Thus all iihsiurc, iniknown, and poor, thro' life I'm 
doom'd to wander, O 

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slum- 
ber: O 

No view nor care, hut shun whate'er might breed rae 
pain or sorrow ; O 

I live to-day, as well's I may, regardl<:ss of to-mor 
ro.v, O. 

♦This so'ig is wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in 
vet-'ificatiiin, but as the sentiments are the genuine 
erliuis .11 mv hen It, for that reason I have aparticjiar 
pleasure iu conning it over. BuiTi's Reliquea, p. 329. 



BTRNS PUCMS. 



I« 



ftul cheerful itill, I am at well, as a monarch in a pa- 
luce, O 

rho' tortune'g trown still hunts me down, with all her 
wonted malice ; O 

1 make indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can make it 
farther; O 

But as daily bread is all 1 need, I do not much regard 
her. O. 

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O 
Sonie untoreseen misfortune comes generally upon 

me ; O 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd 

folly; O 
Bui come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be 

melancholy, 0. 

vriu who follow wealth and power with unremit- 
ting ardour, O 

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view 
the farther; O 

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore 
you, O 

▲ cheerfuiuearted honest clown I will prefer before 
fO'.\ 0. 



SONG. 

THC " cruel fate should bid us part, 

As far'? the pole and line ; 
Herde&i iuea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 

Tho' mountains frown and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



SONG. 

AE fond kiss and then we sever ; 
Ae tarewell, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the star of hope she leaves him' 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy : 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Pare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Pare tbee weel, thou best and dearest 
Thine be "Ka joy and treaaure, 
P«ace, enjoyment, love and p leasure ! 



Ae fond kiss, and iht ~i •*■» »eve- 

Ae fareweel, alas, lor rv-i ! 

Deep in heart- wrung tears I i>Ic(-«r UiPe, 

Warring sighs and groans lli «i «^». in»o. 



SUNG. 

NOW BANK AN' BRaE AR«^- <"' AlTH© 
IN GREEN. 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green 

An' Ecatter'd cowslips sweetly spring. 
By Girvan's tairy haunted stream 

The birdies flu on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's. 

There wi' my Mary let me flee. 
There catch her ilka glance of love. 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'c 

The child wha' boasts o' warld's weaiiil. 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain, 

Ah, fortune canna gie me mpir' 
Then let me range my Cassillis' bansk. 

Wi' her the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e I 



SONG. 

THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S PAR AW A 

O HOW can I be blithe and glad. 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw. 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa? 



It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 

But ay the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that 's far awa. 



My father pat me frae hia door, 
My friends they hae disown'd me a' 

But 1 hae ane will tak my part, 
The bonnie lad that 's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gave to me. 
And silken snoods he gave me twa ; 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bc-nnie lad that 's far awa. 

The weary winter soon will pass. 

And spring will deed the birken-m.' 
And my sweet babie will be born. 

And he'll come hame that 's far a«ra 



134 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SONG. 

OUT over the Forth I look to the north, 

But what is the north and its Highlands to me ? 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, 
The far foreigc land, or the wild rolling sea. 

But 1 look to the west, when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be ; 
For far in the west lives he I lo'ebest, 
' Tl.d lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



SONG. 

I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 

I'LL ay ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green, again ; 

I'll ay ca' in by you town, 
And see my bonnie Jannie again. 

There's nanesall ken, there's nane sail guess 
What brings me back the gate again, 

But she, my fairest, failhfu' lass. 
And stowlins we shall meet again. 

She'll wander by the aikin tree, 
When trystin-time' diaws near again ; 

And when her lovely form 1 see, 
O h£,ilh, she's doublj dear again! 



SONG. 

WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T 
FIRST when Masgy was my care, 
Heav'n, I thought, was in the air ; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair— 

Whistle o'er the lave cr.'t.— 
Meg was meek, and Meg was nriild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child — 
—Wiser men than me's beguil'd : 

Whistle o'er the lave on't. 

How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love and how we 'gree,* 
1 care na by how few may see : 

Whistle o'er the lave o't.— 
What I wish were maggot's meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't.— 



SONG. 

YOUNG JOCKEY. 

YOUNG jocJrey was the blithest lad 
In a' our town or here awa ; 

T-ystin-time — The time of appoinlraen 



Fu' blithe he whistled a', the eraud. 

Pu' lightly danc d he in the na . 
He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue, 

He roos'd my waist sae gently sma" 
An' ay my heart came to my mou, 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and anaw 
And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hamewardca', 
An' ay the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he taks me a' ; 
And ay he vows he'llbemy ain 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



SONG. 

M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL. 
TUNE—" M'Pherson's Lamenu" 

FAREWELL ye dungeons dark and strong 

The wretches destinie ! 
M'Pherson's time will not be long, 

On yonder gallows tree. 



Sae Tontingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
He play'd a spring and danced it 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath ?- 

On moiiy a bloody plain 
I'vedar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ? 
Sae rantingly, Sfc. 

Untie these bands from off my hands 
And bring to me my sword ; 

And there's no a man in all Scotlaad, 
But I'll brave him at a word. 
Sae rantingly , Sj-c, 

I've live'd a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie ; 
It burns my heart 1 must depart 

And not avenged be. 
Sae rantingly, &c. 



Nc" farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all oeiieath the sky ! 
May coward shame disia>n liia name. 

The wretch that dares not die ; 
.Sae rantingly, &c. 



SONG. 

HERE'S a bottle and an honest friend 
What wad ye wish for mair, man ' 

Wha kens, before liis life' ma\ end. 
What his share may be of care, man ^ 



BURNS' POEMS. 



135 



Then catch the moments ns they fly, 
Aud use them as ye ought, man ; — 

Believe me, happiness is shy, 
And comes not ay when sought, man. 



SONG. 
TUNE—" Braes o' Balquhidder.' 

ni Hss thee yet, yet. 
An' I'll kiss thee o'er again. 

An' I'll kiss thee yet yet, 
My bor.nie Peggy Alison! 

ILK care and fear, when thou art near, 

1 ever mair defy them, O ; 
Young Icings upon their hansel throne 

Are uosae blest as 1 am, I 

I'll kiss thee, Sfc, 

When in my arms, wi' a thy charms, 
. i clasp my countless treasure, O ; 
I seek cae mairo' Heaven lo share, 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ; 
I'llkiss thee, Sfc. 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 
1 swear I'm thine lor ever, O ; — 

And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
Aud break it shall I never, O ! 
I'll kiss thee &c. 



SONG. 
TUNE—" If he be a Butcher neat and trim.' 

ON Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 
Could 1 describe her shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weelfar'd face, 
And the glancin of her sparklin een. 

She's fresher than the morning dawu 

When rising Phoebus first is seen, 
When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 

An' she's twa glancin sparling een. 

She's stately like yon youthful ash, 
That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And slioots its head a^^ove each bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn 

With flow'rs so while and leaves so green, 

W.ien purest in the dewy morn ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb. 

When flow'ry May adorns the scene, 
That v/antons round its bleating dam ; 

An' she's twa giancin sparklin e'en. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 
That shades the mountain side at e'en, 



When flow'r-reviving rains are pnsl ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When shining sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings in Cessnock bajiks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe, 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen, 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
An' she's twa glancin sgatklin een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean. 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; ^ 
An' she twa glancin sparklin een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 

The' matching beauty's fabled queen, 
But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace. 
An' chiefly in her sparklin een. 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

WAE is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e ; 
Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me ; 
Forsaken and friendless my burden 1 bear, 
And the ^ weet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in myear 

Love, thou hast pleasure ; and deep hae I loved ; 
Love, thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved ; 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast} 
I'can feel by its throbbiugs will soon be at rest, 

O if I were, where happy I hae been ; 
Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle green i 
For there he is wand'ring and musing omme, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear*frae Phillis's e'e. 



TUNE—" Banks of Banna.' 

YESTREEN I had a pint o= wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicmg o'er his manna. 
Was naething to ray hiney bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Ye moiiarchs, Ink the easi and west, 

Frae Indus to Savanna ! 
Gie me within my slraining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An Empress or Sultana, 
Wliile dying raptures in her arms 

i give and take with Anna ! 

Awa thou flounting god o' day I 

Awa thou pale Diana! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night. 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ; 



S9NG.* 

THE Deil cam fiddling thro' the town, 
Anddanc'dawa wi' the exciseman ; 

And ilka wife cry'd, " Auld Mahouu, 
We wish you luck o' the prize man. 

" We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, 
fVe'll dance and sing and rejoice mnn ; 

And 'many thanks to Che jnuckle black Deil, 
That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 

•'There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, 
Tnere'a liornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 

Butthe ae besi dance e'er cam to our Ian,' 
Was — the Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. 
We'll mak our maut, Sfc. 



SONG. 

POWERS celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes 1 wander 

Let my Mary be your care . 
Lrt herform sae fair and faultless, 

I' air and faultless as your own ; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit, 

Draw your choicest iuflueuct down. 

Make the gales you waft around her, 

Soft and peaceful as her breast : 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her 

Sooth her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angeis, O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
I o realms unknown while fate exiles me. 

Make her bosom still my home.t 

* At a meeting of his brother Excisemen in Dum- 
fries, Burns;" being called upon for a Sojig handed 
these verses extempore to the President written on the 
back of a ieaer. 

t Prohably uriiten on TTighland Mary, on the eve of 
Um Pott's departure to tha West Indie*. 



HTjNTINO SONG. 

I RED YOU BEWARE AT THE HUNTINO. 

The heather was blooming, the meadows mawn. 
Our lads gaeda-hunting, ae day at the dawi,. 
O'er moors and o'er mosses and muny a glen. 
At length they discover'd a bonnie moor hen. 

I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 
I red you beware at the hunting, young men : 
Tak some on the wing, and some as they spi-ing. 
But carmily steal on the bonnie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather be!U 
Her colours betray 'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring, 
And 1 as she wantoned gay on the wiug. 

I red, i(c. 

Auld Phcebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill; 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae— 
His rays w^ere outshone, and but marked where s^.; lay. 
/ red, ifc. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best of our lads wi' the besto' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight ! — 
Ired, ifC. 



YOUNG PE^^TV. 
YOUNG Peggy blooms our bonniest laas, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With early gems ailoniing : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower. 
And glittero'er the crystal streams, 

And rheer each fresh'iiing flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 

A richer die has grac'd them, 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the ev'niiig mild, 

When feather'd pairs are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild. 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming Spring unbends the orow 

Of surly, savage Winter. 
Detraction's eyes no aim can gain 

Her winning powers to lessen : 
And fretful envy grins in vain, 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Trotia, 

From ev'ry 11! defend her ; 
Inspire the highly favour'd ,-t>r<h 

The destinies intend her ; 



BURNS' POEiVlS. 



i37 



Still tan ihe sw»pt CDnnuhial flame 
fteipouBive in each liLisnm ; 

And bless the Mear pareiual nai-ne 
Witli many 3 filial blossom.* 



UNE— " The King of France, he rade a Race. 

AMANij the trees when humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hanging, O 
luld Caledon drew out 'ler drone, 

And to her pipe was singing ; O 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

Shedirl'd themaff, fu' clearly, O 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O — 

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made onr lugs grow eerie. O 
The hungry bike did scrape an pike 

Till we were wae and weary ; O 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen yearawa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the North 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O 



TUNE—" John Anderson my Jo.' 

ONE night as I did wander, 

When corn begins to shoot, 
1 sat me down to ponder. 

Upon an auld tree root : 
Auld Ayre ran by before me, 

And bicker'd to the seas ; 
A cushat crowded o'er me 

That echoed thro' the braes. 



TUNE—" Daintie Davie." 

THERE was a lad born at Kyle,t 
But what na day o' what na style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 

Rantin' rovin'; rantin' rovin'', 

* This was one of the Poet's earliest compositions. 
It IB copied from a MS. book, which he had before his 
&ratpublica'J0D. 

t Kyle — a district of Ayrshire. 



I Rohin was a rortn' Boy, 

Rantin' rovin' Robin. 

Our monarch's hindmost year but an« 
Was five and twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Jaiiwar Win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keekit inhisloof, 
duo' scho wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae coof, 
1 think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma* 
But ay a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit till us a'. 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak nine, 
I see by ilka score and line. 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 

Guid faith quo scho I doubt you. Sir, 
Ye gar the lasses * * * * 
But twenty fauts ye mayhae waur 
So blessin's on thee, Robin. 

Robin was a rovin Boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin' ; 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin. 



TUNE — " I had ae Horse and I had nae in&ir," 

WHEN first! came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was nae steady, 
Where'er 1 gaed, where'er 1 rade 

A mistress still I had ay : 
But when I came roun' by Mauchline 

Not dreadin' any body, 
My heart was caught before I thought. 

And by a Mauchline lady. 



SONG. 
TUNE—" Galla Water." 

ALTHO' my bed were in yon muir, 
Arhang the heather, in my plaidie, 

Yet happy, happy would I be 

Had I my dear Montgoinerie's Peggy.— 

When o'er the hill beat surlv storms, 
And winter nights were dark and ramy ; 

I'll seek'some dell, and in my rums 
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's reggy. 

Were I a Baron proud and high. 
And horse and servante waiting reafly, 



138 



EURNS' POEMS. 



'heii a' 'twaci cie o' ioy to mc, 
The shariii'i wiib Muntgomerie's Peggy. 



SONG. 
O RAGING fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low ! O 
O raging fortune's withering blast 

HaslaiUrny leaf f.il low! O 
My stem was fair, my bud was green 

My blossom sweet did blow ; O 
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mud, 

And made my branches grow ; O 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossom's low, O 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

l^aid a' ray blossom's low, 0, 



PATRIOTIC— II n^zs/jerf. 

HERE'S a health :o them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha winna wish gaid luck to our cause, 

May never guid luck be their fa'. 

It's guid to be merry ar.d wise. 

It's guid to be honest and true, 

It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 

And bide the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to Charlie,* the chief o' the clan, 

Altho' tnai his ftand be butsma' 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny time in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil 1 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to Tammie,tthe Norland laddie. 

That lives at the lug o' the law 1 

Here's freedom to him that wad read, 

Here's freedom to him that wad write 1 

There's nana ever fear'd that the truth should ; 

heard, 
But they wham the truth wad indict. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a healih to them that's awa, 

Here's Chiefiain M'Leod, a Chieftain worth gowd 

The' bred amaug mountains o' snaw I 



SONG 

THR I'LOUGHMAN. 

As I w>v» k WRiid I iiiu ae morning iu spring, 
Ib^nrda y*uus Ploughni.in sac sweeUy to sing, 

'O Vox. 



And as he was singin' ihir words he cid say, 
There's nae life like the Ploughman in the 
sweet May— 



The lav'rock in the mornins: she'll rise frae her neat, 
And mount to the air wi' the dew on her breast. 
And wi' the merry Ploughman she'll whistle and sing 
nest back again. 



And at night she'll return i 



SONG. 

HER flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 

How sweet unto that breast to cling ; 
And round that neck entwine her I 

Her lips are i-oses wat wi' dew, 
O, what a feast, her boiinie mou I 

Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
A crimson still diviner. 



BALLAD 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, 

Though prestwi' care and sunk in wo, 
To thee 1 bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

Forth(-rp he rov'd that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear ! 



SONG. 

THE winter it is past, and the simmer cornea at laat. 
And the small birds sin'» on every tree ; 

Now every thing is glad, v, hile I am very sad, 
Since ray true love is parted from me. 

The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear. 
May have charms for the linnet or the bee ; 

Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at 
rest, 
But my true love is parted from me. 



GUIDWIFR OF WAUCHOrE 
HOUSE. 

TO 
ROBERT BURNS. 



Febrwary, 1787 . 



"■Lord Rrskine, 



MY canty, wtity, rhyming ploughman, 
1 hafllins doubt, it is na true mau. 



BURINS' POEMS. 



139 



Thai ye between tl.e stilts were bred, 

Wi' plougnmen f chool'd, wi jjloughmen fed. 

1 cloubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge 

E; tiler frae gi-arnmar-school, or college, 

Giiid troth, your saul and body baith 

War' better fed, I'd f<e my aitli, 

Tlian theirs, wbo ^.-p sour milk and parritch, 

Au' bumrail thro' the single caritch, 

Wha' ever heard the plouahman speak, 

Could tell gil Hoiner Wcs a ureek i 

He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 

As get a single line of Virgil. 

An' then sae slee ye crack your jokes 

0' Willie I — t and Charlie r' — x. 

Our gi-eat men a' sae wee! describe, 

An' how to gar the nation thrive, 

Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt araang them, 

An' as ye saw them, sae ye sang them. 

But be ye ploughman, be ye peer, 

Ye are a funny blade, 1 swear ; 

An' though the cauld I ill can bide. 

Yet twenty miles, an' mair, I'd ride, 

O'er muss, an' muir, an' never giumble, 

Tho' my auld yad sliould gie a stumble, 

To crack a winter night wi' thee, 

And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. 

A guid saut herring, an' a cake, 

Wi' sic a chiel, a feast wad make, 

I'd rather scour your reaming yill. 

Or eat o' cheese and bread my fill, 

Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine, 

An' ferlie at their wit and wine. 

O' gif I kenn'd but whare ye baide, 

I'd send to you a marled pliiid ; 

'Twad baud your shoulders warm and braw, 

'An' douse at kirk, or market shaw. 

For south, as weel as north, my lad, 

A' honest Scotchmen lo'e the maud. 

Right wae that we're sae far frae ither ; 

Yet proud I am to ca' ye brither. 

Tour most obed't. 



THE ANSWER. 

Gmdwife. 

I MIND it weel, in earle date, 

When I was beardless young, and blate, 

An' first could thresh the barn , 
Or baud a yokin at the pleugh. 
An' tho' for foughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckoc'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Btill shearing, and clearing 

The tJther stocked raw, 

Wi' ciaivers, an' haivers, 

Wearing the day awa.-- 



E'en then a wish, (I mind its powtr,) 
A wisli that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly iieave my breast; 
That 1 for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usefu' plan, or book could make. 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough bur-thistle, spreading widu 

Among the bearded bear, 
I turn'd my weediug-heuk aside. 
An' spar'd the symbol dear ; 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

Ru' dill the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the forming strain. 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean. 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en 
That gart my heart-strings tingle, 
I fired, inspired. 

At ev'ry kindling keek. 

But bashing, and dashing, 

I feared ay to speak. 

Hale to the set, each guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days. 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm o' wo, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name 

Be mindl'u' o' your milher ; 
She, honest woman, may think shams 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae..:eu, ye're nae men, 
That slight the lovely dears ; 
The shame ye, disclaim ye. 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 
For you, na bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

■ Thanks to you for your line. 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
Byrne should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the Nine. 
I'dbe mair vauntie o' ray hap, 
Douse hingin o'er my curple. 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 
Fareweel then, laug haie men. 

An' plenty be your fa ; 
My losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 

ROBiR'i' BURNS. 
March, 1787. 

SONG. 
TUNE — "The tither mom, as . .-AJorn." 

YON wand'ring rill, that marks the hiU 
And glances o'er the brae, .Sir • 



140 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Slides by a bower where mony a flower, 
Shades fragraoce on the day, Sir. 

There Daraonlay, with Sylvia gay; 

To love they thought iiae c4-ime, Sir ; 
The wild birds saiig, the echoes rang, 

While Damon's heartbeat time, Sir. 



SONG. 

AS I cam in by our gate-end, 

As day was waxen weary ; 
O wha cam tripping down the street, 

But bonnie Peg, my dearie. 

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 
Wi' nae proportion wanting ; 

The queen of love, did never move, 
Wi' motion mair enchanting. 

Wi' linked hands, we took the sands, 

Adown yon winding river, 
And, Oh ! that hour, an' brooray bower, 

Can I forget it ever ? 



POLLY STEWART. 
TUNE—" Ye're welcome Charlie Stewart.' 

O LOVELY Polly Stevjart, 

O charming Polly Stewart, 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 

That's half so fair as thou art. 

The iJower it blaws, i-t fades, it fa's, 

And an can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth eternal youth, 

Will gie to Polly Stewart. 

May he, whase arms shall fauld thy charms, 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart I 
O lovely, !fc. 



THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. 

THERE was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, bonnie lass 

And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear ; 
Till war's loud alarms tore her laddie frae her arms, 

Wi' monv a sieh and a tear. 
Over sea, over snore, where the cannons loudly roar. 

He s'.ill was a stranger to fear ; 
And nocritco;ild him quell, or his bosom assail, 

Bui the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae Jear. 



Tn>BlE DUNBAR. 

TUNE—" Johnny M'Gill." 

C WILT thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; 
O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; 



Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be dmwn in ■ «•» 
Or walk by my side, O sweet 'I'ibi le ..^ ~. r 
I carena thy daddie, his lands and ms money, 
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : 
But say thou wilt hae me for belter lor waur, 
And come In thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunoar. 



ROBIN SHURE IN HAlRST. 

ROBIN shure in hairst, 

1 shure wi' him, 
Fienl a heuk had I, 

Yet I stack by him. 

I gaed up toDunse, 

To warp a wab o' plaiden. 

At his daddie's yett, 
Wha met me but Robin. 

Was na Robin hauld, 

Tho' 1 was a cotter, 
Play'd me sic a trick 

And me the tiler's dochteir? 
Robin shure, !(c. 

Robin promis'd me 

A' my winter vittle ; 
Fient haet he had butthree 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 
Robin shure, tfc. 



MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S r)-*i*^U"''WT 

MY laay's gown there's gairsupon't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare iqion't i 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinei. 
My lord thinks muckle mair uponi,. 

My lord a hunting he is gane. 
But hounds or hawks wi' him are j^MUt, 
By Colin's cottage lies his game, 
If Colin's Jf nny be at hame. 
My lady's govyii, &.c. 

My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And kith and kin o' CassilUs' bluae. 
But her leu-puiid lands o' tocher g!Jid, 
Were a' the charms his lordship 'o'«* 
My lady's gown, Sfc. 

Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon inoe», 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pa««, 
There wons auld Cohn's bonnie las*, 
A lily in a wilderness. 
My lady's gown, Sfc. 

Sae sweetly move hergenty )irn*B 
Like music notes o' lover's hymn* » 
The diamond dew in her een sa* tl in. 
Where laughing love sae 
Myliidy's gown, Ifc. 



BUIINS' POEMS. 



14/ 



Mv Party's Jink, my lady's drest, 
Tlitf dower and lancy o' the west ; 
But ihe lassie lliat a man lo'es best, 
O that's the lass to make him blest. 
My iady's gown, Sfc, 



WEE WILLIE GRAY. 



WEE WilUe Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
Heel a wiUow-wand to be him boots and jacket : 
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and doublet, 
The rose upon the brier will be him troase and doublet. 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
Twice a lily flower will be in him sark and cravat : 
Pcalhers ot a flee wad fea'her up his bonnet, 
Feathers of a flee wad feaihT up his bonnet. 



THE NORTHERN LASS. 
THO' cruel fate sb"-.'.ii j t vw pa. 

Far as the pole and lir.3 ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Shouia '.enderly entwine. 
Tho' mountains rise, and deserts howl. 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet diRrer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



COULD AUGHT OF SONG. 

CtULD aught of songdeclare my pains, 

Oould artful numbers move thee, 
Thp muse should tell, in labour'd strains, 

O Mary, how 1 love thee. 
They who but feign a wounded heart, 

May teach the lyre to languish ; 
But wha' avails the pride of art, 

When wastes the soul with anguish ? 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover ; 
Ana in the keen, yet tender eye, 

O read th' Lmjiloring lover. 
For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdain's art's gay disguising ; 
Beyon'J what fancy e'er refiu'r" 

The voice of nature prizing 



O GUID ALE COMES. 

GUID ale comes, and guid ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose. 

Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

1 had sax owsen in a pleiigh. 
They drew a' weel enough, 

t ^-l":! them a' just ane by ane ; 
Guid file keeps my heari uboou. 



Guid ale hands me bare and busy, 
Gars rae moop wi' the servant hizzie. 
Stand i' the stool when I hae done, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 
O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose. 
Sell ray hose, and pawn my shoon ; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 



O LEAVE NOVELS. 

O LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles, 

Ye're safer at your spinuing-wheel ; 
Such witching books, are baited hooks 

For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 

They make your youthful fancies reel, 
They heat your brains, and fire your veiu* 

And then you're prey for Rob Mossgifc*. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung : 

A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part., 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 
The frank address, the soft caress. 

Are worse than poisoned darts c/ "•••sl. 
The frank address, and politesse, 

Are a11 £nesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



C- AY il 1 



:f'L. oi'xij 04X«'vi iiA 



O AY my wife she dang use; 
An' aft my wife she bang'd me ; 
If ye gie a woman a' her will. 
Good faith sne'U soon o'ergaiig ya, 

•n ,i.:.iv^ and rest my mind was bent. 
And fool I was I marry'd j 
Bat never honest man's intent 
As cursedly miscarry'd. 

Some sairie comfort still at last, 
When a' their days are clone, raai. 

My pains o' hell on earth is past, 
I'm sure o' bliss aboon, nian, 
Oay mi/ wife, Sfc. 



THE DEUKS DANG O'ER MY DaDDII 

THE bairns gat out wi' an unco shout. 

The deuksdang o'er my daddie, O 1 
The fient ma care, quo' the feirie auld wife. 

He was but a paidlin body, .^ ' 
He paidles out, and he paidlesin, 

An' he paidles late and earlie, O ; 
This seven lang years I hae lain by his -iue. 

An' he is but a fusionless earlie, C. 

O had your tongue, my feirie auld wife 
O had your tongue now, Nankie, C : 



!4S 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I've seen ilie day, and sae nae ye, 
Ye wadiia been sae donsie, O ; 

I've seen the day ye bntter'd my brose, 
And cuddl'd me late and earlie, O ; 

But downa do's come o'er me now. 
And, Oh, I find it sairly, O 1 



DELIA. 

AN ODE. 

Fair the face of orient day. 
Fair the tints of op'uing rose ; 
But fairer still ray Delia dawns. 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Swest the tinkling rill to hear ; 
But, Delia, more del igiitiul still, 
Steal thine accents on my ear. 

The flower-enamour'dbusy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip ; 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove I 

O let me steal one liquid kiss, 

For Oh ! my soul is parch'd with love ! 



ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. 

ON a bank of flowers one summer's day, 

For summer lightly dress'd, 
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, 
- With love and sleep oppress 'd ; 
When Willy, wand'ring thro' the wood. 

Who for her favour oft had su'd, 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd. 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd, 

Were seal'd in soft repose, 
Her lips still as they fragrant breath'd 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly press'd, 

Wild wanion kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He f,a.r:ii, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

H>= hosuin ill at rest. 

Hei' robes, light waving in the breeze, 

Her lender limbs embrace, 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace. 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A flattering ardent kiss he stole : 
He gaz'd, he wish'd. he fear'd, he blush'd, 

And sigh'd his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake. 
On fuiir iijsjjired wings ; 



So NTelly startlins, half twakc. 

Away afiVighled springs 
But Willy follow'd as he shookt, 

He ovei'took her in the wood, 
He vow'd, he pray'd, lie found themtid 

Forgiving all and good. 



EVAN BANKS. 

SLOW spreads the gloom my soul desire*. 

The sun from India's shore retires ; 

To Evan banks with temperate ray 

Home of my youth, it leads the day. 

Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 

Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I heart 

All, all my hopes of bliss reside. 

Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

And she, in simple beauty drest. 
Whose image lives within my breast , 
Who trumbliiig heard my parting sigh. 
And long pursued me with her eye ! 
Does she with heart uucliang'd as mine. 
Oft in thy vocal bowers recline ? 
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide. 
Muse while the Kvan seeks the Clyde. 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er ilie stream your shadows throw 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 
What secret charm to meni'ry bruigs. 
All that on Evan's border springs ? 
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest stream ! she views thee haste to Clyde, 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost? 
Return, ye moments of delight, 
With richer treasure blets my sight' 
Swift from this desert let me part, 
And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 
Nor more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to ClyJ* 



THE FIVE CARLIN&. 

AN ELECTION BALLAD. 
TUNE—" Chevy Chace.'' 

THERE were five Carlins in the eouth. 

They tell upon a scheme. 
To send a lad to Lon'on town 

To bring us tidings hame. 

Not only bring us tidings hame, 

But do our errands there, 
And aibling gowd and honour baith 

Might be that laddie's sliare. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



14,' 



There was Maggie by the banks o' Nilh," 

A <lanie wi' pritle enough ; 
And Majorie o' themoiiie Loch,t 

A Carliu auld an' teugh. v 

And blinkiii Bess o' Annandale.J 

That dwells near SoKvay side, 
And whisky lean that took her gill§ 

III Galloway so wide. 

And auld black Joan frae Creighlon peel, 

O' gipsy kith an' kin, 
Five weitjhtier Carlins were na *bund 

The south kintra within. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town 

They met upon a day, 
And monie a Knight and monie a Laird 

That errand fain would pae. 

O ! monie a Knight and monie a Laird 

This errand lain woi-kl gae ; 
But nae ane could their I'ancy please, 

O ! ne'er a aue but Iwae. 

The first ane was a belted Knight, 

Bred o' a border band, 
An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 

Might nae man him withstand. 

And he wad do their errands weel. 

And meikle he wad say, 
And. .ka ane at Lon'on court 

Wad bid to him guid day. 

Tho.n rtiest came in a sod^er youth 

And spak wi' modest grace, 
An' he wad sae to Lon'on town. 

If sae their pleasure was. 

He wad na iiecht them courtly gift, 

Nor meikle speech pretend ; 
But he wad liecht an honest heart 

Wad ne'er desert his friend. 

Now whcm to choose and whom refuse ; 

To strife thae Carlins fell ; 
For some had gentle folk to please. 

And some wad please themsei. 

Then out, spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, 

An' she spo.k out wi' pride. 
An' she wad send the sodger youth 

Whatever might betide. 

For the auld guidman o' Lon'on court 

She did not care a pin, 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 

Then up sprang Bess o' Aunandale ; 

A deadly aitn she's ta'en. 
That she wad vote the border Knight, 

'I'ho' she should vote her lane. 

'Dumfries. tLochmaoen. J Annan. 

§Kr.k udbright'. Sanquhar. 



For far off fowls hae feathers fair, 

An' fools o' change are fain: 
But 1 hae tried the border Knight, 

I'll try him yet again. 

Says auld black Joan frae Creighton ved, 

A Carlin stout and grim. 
The auld guidman or young guidman : 

For me may sink or swim ! 

For fools may prate o' right and wrang, 
While knaves laugh ther->. to scum ; 

But the Sodger's fi-iends hae blawn the best 
Sae he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak o'er her drink. 

Ye weel ken kimmers a'. 
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court, 

His back's been at the wa'. 

And monie a friend that kiss'd his caup, 

Is now aframmit wight ; 
But it's ne'er sae wi' whisky Jean, 

We'll send the border Knight. 

Then slow rose Majorie o' the Lochg, 

And wrinkled was her brow ; 
Her ancient weed was russet gray 

Her auld Scots heart was true. 

There's some great folks set light by me, 

I set as light by them ; 
But I will send to Loji'on lown 

Wha 1 lo'ebest athanie. 

So how this weighty plea will end, 

Nae mortal.wight ran tell ; 
G-d grant the King and ilka man 

May look weel to himsel. 



'THE LASS THAT MADE THF BEI TO MB 

WHEN January winds were blawing cauld. 

As to the north ! bent my way , 
The mirksome nighi did me enfauld, 

I kenn'd na whare to lodge till day ; 
By my guid luck a lass I met. 

Just in the middle of my care. 
And kindly she did me invite, 

To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 

And thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
I bow'd fu' low imtothis maid, 

And bade her make abert for me : 
She made the bed both large and wide, 

Wi' twa white Viands she spread it down ; 
She put the cup to her rosy lips. 

And drank, "Young man, now sleep ye taxunfX.'* 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 
Aiid frae my chamber went wi' speed: 

Bui I call'd her quickly back again. 
To lay some mair bel"W my head :, 



14 



BURNS' POEMS. 



A. rod she laid below mv head, 

A.:;a served me with due respect ; 
»PQ M salute her with a kiss, 
1 put my arms aboi\t her neck. 

«' Haud aft your hands, young man," says she. 

And dinna sae uncivil be : 
Git ye nae ony love tor me, 

O wrang na my virginity !" 
Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 

Her icelh were like the ivory. 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The l?.ss that made the bed for me. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 

Twadrifted heaps sae fair to fee ; 
Her linios the polish'd marble stone, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again. 

And ay she wistna what to say ; 
I h\id her 'tween me and the wa' ; 

The lassie thought na lang till day 

Upon the morrow, when we raise, 

I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
But ay sheblush'd, and ay she sigh'd, 

And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 
( ciasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 

While the tear S''.ood twinkling in her e'e, 
I said, "my lassie, dir.na cry. 

For ye ay shal mak the bed to me." 

She took her mither's Hfolland sheets. 

And made them a' in sarks to me ; 
Blythe and merry may she be, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
The boiinie lass made the bed to me, 

The braw lass made the bed to me ; 
IM ne'er forget, till the day that I die, 

'I'he lass that made tlie bed to me. 



THE KIRK'S ALARM.* 

A SATIRE. 

ORTmODOX, Orthodox, wha believe hi John Knox, 
l,tt .ne sound an alarm to your conscience ; 

Pheie's aher3ticblast,hasbeenblawnin the wast, 
'l"l iit what is no sense must be nonsense. 



Ye tliai wiiina save ye, auld Satan must hare jt. 
For preaching that three's aiie aiiU iwa. 

Rumble John,* Rumble John, mount the steps »(' a 
groan. 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like addle, 

And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James,t Simper James, leave the fair Killie 
dames. 

There's a holier place in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead 

For puppies like you Chere's but few 

Singet Sawney,! Singet Sawney, are ye herdijig the 
penny. 

Unconscious what evils await ? 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul. 

For the foul thiet is just at you- gate. 

Daddy Auld,§ Daddy Auld, there's a tod inthefau'd, 

A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do iittle skaith, ye'll be in at the death, 

And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Da^vie Bluster,!! Davie Bluster, if for a 8«iiit y* Jc 
muster. 

The corps is no nice of recruits : 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boatt 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Groose,** Jamie Groose, ye hae made but loom 
rooRe, 

In hunting tho wicked Lieutenant 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's haljr ark, 

He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrangpin in'i. 

Poet Willie, Tt Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, 

Wi' your liberij's cliain ai.l your wit ; 
O'er Pegasus's side ye ne'er laid a stride 

Ye but smell, man, the place where no s — t. 

Andro Gouk,JJ Andro Gouk, ye may siander the book, 
And tlie book na.iie the waur let me tell ye ! 

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sina' value 



Dr. Mac,t Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 
To j.iiii luilh and sense upon any pretence. 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad T declare, 

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewiiig ; 
Provns; John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

A lid orator Bob| is it's ruin. 

D'-y>tiin!e mild,§ D'rymplemild, tho' your heart's like 
^ chiJ-d, I 

.A nd your life like the new driven sna-w , 

* Tliis Poem was written a short time after the pub- | 

licatiou of Dr. M'Gill's Essay. i 

tW. .Mi.iU. til 1 A— k— .1. §Mr.D— m-le 



Barr Steenie,§§ Barr Steenie, what meaa yei" what 
mean ye i 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may hae some pretence to haviiis and sense, 

Wi' the people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine Side,1T1T Irvine Side, wi' your turkey-cock prid«, 

Of manhood but sma' is yourshare ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, ev«ii your faes will alliw, 

A~d your friends they dare grant you uae mair. 

* Mr. R_s3— i:. t Mr. M'K— y. 

JMr M y. §Mr. A-d. 

TTMr.G — tofO— 1— e. " Mr. Y— £o''C— n— k. 
■ttMr. 1^— b— s of A— r. t; Dr. A. Al— 11 

5j Mr. S 11 y K of 8 r 

itll JS\r. S h of G n. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



t45 



itiiirlaDdJock,* MulrlanJ Jock, when ihc L — d make« 
a rock \ 

To crush common sense for her sins, 
If i!i manner' were wil, there's no mortal so fit 

To coufouuil the poor Doctor at auce. 

Holy Will.t Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull. 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
■fhe tvmmer is scant, when ye're ta'eu for a sani, 

W'ha should swing in a rope for au hour. 

Jalvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns, 

Ainr"in'tionyou never can need ; 
/ourhoaris are the stuff, will be powther enough, 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

oei Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelping 

turns, 
Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 
four muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, 
She cou'U ca' us nae waur than we are. 



THE TWA HERDS. 

O a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Well fed on pasture:, orthodox, 
Wba now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or \rha will lent the waifs and crocks. 

About the dykes 1 

The twa best herds in a' the wast. 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast. 
These live and twenty summers past, 

O ! duol to tell, 
Hae had a bitter black outcast, 

Atween themsel. 

O, M y, man, and wordy R 11, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ve'l) see how new-light herds will whistle 

And think it fine t 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle. 

Sin' 1 haemin'. 

O, Sirs ! wha e'er wad hae expeckil. 
Your duly ye wad sae negleckit. 
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
Bui by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock w' M y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank. 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvii. swell, ay clear they drank, 

O sic a feast ! 

The thummarl wU'-cat, brock and tod 
Weel kiiun'd his voice thro' a' the wood, 
Ue smeil'd liieir ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in. 
jj(? weel he lik'd ic ahed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 
' Air. S d. i An Elder m M 



What herd like R 1] toll'd his talf ? 

His voice was heard thro' inuir and daie, 
Hekenn'd the Lord's sheep ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale. 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 
Or nobly fling the gospel club. 
And new-fight herds could nicely druh, 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub ; 

Or heave them iu. 

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't— 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
An' names, like villain hypocrite. 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While new-light herds wi' laughin spue. 

Say neilher's lien' I 



A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld. 

There's D n, deep, and P s, shaul. 

But chiefly thou, apost.e A — D, 

We trust in thee. 
That thou wilt work them, hot anti cauld. 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, 
There's scarce a new herd that we get, 
But comes frae 'mang tha.l cursed set, 

I winna name, 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

D e has been lang our fae, 

M' 11 has wrought us maikle wae. 

And that curs'U rascal ca'd M' e 

And baith ttie S— — 
That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengetu' pawt. 

Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief, 

We thought ay death wad bring relief, 
Pat he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chiel wha'U soundly buff our beef; 

I meikle dreaa him. 

And many a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel. 

There S h for ane, 

I doubt he's but a gray nick quill. 

And that ye'll fia', 

O ! a' ye flocks, o'er a' the hills, 
By mosses, meadows, moors and fells, 
Come join your counsel and your skills. 

To cowe the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themselves, 

To choose their henU. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woody dance, 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

'I' hat bitMiae n 



4S 



BURNS' POEMS. 



He tiauUh'd o'er the sea to France ; 
Let hiiu barJf there. 

Then Shaw's and D'ryraple's eloquence, 

M' U'b close nervous excellence, 

M'Q, 's pathetic Manly sense, 

Andguid M' h 

Wi' S th, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack aff. 



EPISTLE FROM A TAYLOR 

TO 

ROBERT BURNS. 

WHAT waefu' news is this I hear, 
Frae greeting I can scarce forbear. 
Folks tell me, ye're gawn aff this year, 

Ouie'r the sea, 
And lasses wham ye lo'e sae dear 

Will greet for thee 

Weei wad I like war ye to stay. 
But, Robin, since ye will away, 
J hae a word.yet mair to say. 

And maybe twa ; 
May he protect U8 night an' day, 

That made us a'. 

Whaur thou art gaun, keep mind frae me, 
Seek him to bear thee compaiiie, 
And, Robin, whan ye come to die, 

Ye'U won aboon, 
An' live at peace an' unity 

Ayont the moon. 

i5ome tell me, Rab, ye diima fear 
To get a wean, an' rurse an' swear, 
I'm unco wae, my lad, to hear 

O'sica trade, 
Cou'd I persuade ye to forbear, 

I wad be glad. 

F-i' weti ye ken ye'U gang to hell. 
Gin ye persist in doing ill— 
Waes me : ye're burlin down the bill 

Withouien dread. 
An' 7e'll get leave to swear your fill 

Alter ye're dead. 

There walth o' women ye'U get near, 
But gettin weans ye will forbear. 
Ye'U never say, my bonnie dear 

Come, gie's a kiss — 
Nae kissing there — ye'U grin an' sneer. 
All' ither hiss. 

O Rao. A7 by thy foolish tricks. 
An' steer nae raair ihe female sex : 
Or some day ye'U come through the pricks, 

An' that ye'U see ; 
Y«" fifld bard living -sri' Auld Nitks ; 

J'm wae for thee. 



But what's iftis comes wi'sjc akneli, 
Amaist as loud as ony hell ? 
I While it does mak my ccnscience tell 

Ms what is true, 
I'mbutaragget cowtmysel, 

Owre sib to yaa 

We're owre like those wha think it nv. 
To stuff theirnoddles fu' o' wit, 
An' yet content in darkness sit, 

Wha shun the light. 
To let them see down to the pit, 

That lang, dark oigca 

But farewell, Rab, I raaun awa', 
May he that made us keep us a'. 
For that would be adreadfu' fa' 

And hurt us sair, 
Lad, ye wad never mend ava, 

Sae, Rab, tak care. 



THE ANSWER. 

WHAT ails ye now, ye Icasy b h, 

To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh man I hae mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauid, 
I did na suffer ha'f sae much 

Fra Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times when I grow crouse 
I gie their wames a random pouse, 
Is that enough for you to souse 

Your servant saet 
Gae mind your seam, yepiick the louse. 

An' jag thePae. 

King David o' poetic brief, 
Wrought 'maug llie lasses sic mischief 
As fiU'd his alter life wi' grief 

An' bloody rants. 
An' yet he's rank'd among the chief 

O' lang synesaunts 

And may be, Tam.for a' my cants. 
My wicked rhymes, an' dr;:ijkeu rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Clouty 's haunts. 

An unco slip yet, 
An' snugly sit amang the saunts 

At Davie's hip ye*. 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 
Gae fa' upo' anither plan. 
Than garran lassies cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre bixlj 
And sairly thole their mlther's ban, 

Afbre the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport, 
How r did with the Session son— 
Auld Clinkum at the Inner port 

Cry'd three times, "Roba 
Come hither, lad, an answer IVir't, 
I Ye're blain'd for joubm.' 



BURNS' POEMS. 



147 



Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, 
An' Buoov'd awa' betore the Session — 
I made an open, fair confession, 

I sconi'd tolie: 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression. 

Fell foul o' me. 

A fornicator lown he call'd me. 
An' said my fau't frae bliss expel) 'd me; 
I own'd the tale ivas true ue tell'd me, 

" But what the matter?" 
^uo' I, " I fear unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better." 

" Geld you," quo' he, " and what for no I 
If that your right hand, leg or toe, 
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe. 

You shou'd remember 
To cut it aff, an' what for no 

Your dearest member?" 

" Na, na," quo' I, " I'm no for that, 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, 
I 'd rather suffer for my fau 't , 

A hearty flewit. 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't ! 

Tho'l should rue it. 

Or gin ve hue to end the bother, 
To please lis a', I've justaeither. 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather 

Whate'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither. 

An' let her guide it." 

But, Sir, this pfeaa'd them warst ava, 
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw, 
I said, " Guid night," and cam awa'. 

And left the Session ; 
I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 



LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, 

KILMARNOCK, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

GOUDIE! terror o' the Whigs, 
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs, 
Soor Bigotry, on her last lees, 

Girnin looks ba.ck, 
Wishin the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapia, glowrin Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 
Fy, bring Black Jock, her state physician, 

To see her w — ter ; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne er get better. 



Auld Orthodoxy lang did giapple, 
3ut nowshe's got an unco ripple, 
Haste, gie her name u^ i' the chapel. 

Nigh unio death ; 
See how she fetches at the ihiapple, 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's pasi redemption, 
Gaer in a galloping consumption. 
Not a' the quacks wi' a' their gumption. 

Will ever mend her, 
[lur feeble purse gies strong presumption. 

Death soon will end her 

'Tisyou and Taylor* are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief; 
But gin the L — d's ain folks gat leave, 

A toom tar barrel 
And twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarrel. 



LETTER TO J S T T GL NC- 

AULD comrade dear and brither sinnei, 
How's a' the folk about Gl — no — r ; 
How do you this blae eastlin wind, 
That's like to blaw a body blind i 
For me my faculties are frozen, 
My dearest member nearly dozen'n ! 
I've sent you here by Johnie Simpson, 
Twa sage Philosophers to glimpse on ; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling. 
An' Reid, to common sense appca>ing. 
Philosophers have fought and wranglrd, 
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled. 
Till wi' their logic jargon tired, 
An' in the depths of science mir'd. 
To common sense they now appeal. 
What wives an' wabslers see an' feel ; 
But, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly 
Peruse them an' return them qu.rkly ; 
For now I'm grown sae cursed douse, 
I pray an' ponder butt the house. 
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin. 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston ; 
Till by an' by, if T baud on, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel groan : 
Already I begin to try it, 
To cast my een up like a pyet. 
When by a gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore ; 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning an' a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to <;md auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honetl men ; 
When bendingdown with auld gray hairs, 
Beneath the load of years and cares. 
May he who made him still support him. 
An' views beyond the grave comfort hire. 
His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear. 



■ Dr. Taylor of Norwich, 



148 



BURNS' POEMS. 



ON THE DEATH OP 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

V 1 1 b; lamp of day with ili-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy sunk beneath the western ^vave, 

T..' jncoiistaiit blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ;* 

Ormus'd where limpid streams, once hallow 'dwell,! 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.} 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, 
The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky. 

The groa-'JQg !rees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startling eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 
And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form. 

In weeds of wo that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wilo I.O my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: 

Her form majestic droop'din pensive wo, 
The lightning cf her eye in tears imbued. 

• The King's Park, at Holyrood-house. 

T St. Aattuxty'i Weil. } St. Antbouy 's Chapel. 



Revers'dthat spear, redoubtable in war; 

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields uufurl'd. 
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar. 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.— 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 
With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 

' Low lies the hand that oft was stretch 'd to save, 
Low lies the heart thatsweil'd with honest priciel 

" A weeping country joins a widow's tears, 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh.— • 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow; 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid this guardian low.— 

" My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthless nam« I 

No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue. 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

"And f will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his virtue ihti. 

That distant years may boastof other Blaim"— 
She said, and vaniaii'd with the sweepiiif bleat. 



A CANTATA. 






RECITATIVO. 

WHEN lyart leaves bestt-ew the yird 
Or, wavii;glike the bauckie* bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
Ariii.afant frosts begin to bite^ 

In hoary cranreugh drest ; 
Ae night at e'en, a merry core 

O' randie gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nai'.sie's held thesplore, 
To drink their ora duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they^sang ; 
Wi' jumping an<l thumping 
The vera girdle rang 

First, niest the fire, in anld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi* usquebae and blankets warm, 

She blinket on her sodger ; 
And aye he gies the tousie drab 

The li.her skelpin kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab, 
Just like an a'mous dish ; 

Ilk smack still, did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whup, 
Then staggering, and swaggering. 
He roar'd this ditty up — 



TUNE—" Soldier's Joy." 

I AM a son of Mars, who have been in many wars. 
And show my cuts and scars wherever 1 come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench. 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, Sfc, 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his 

last, 

When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram; 
I serv'd out my trade when the gallant game was play 'd 
Aud the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, !fc. 

The old Scottish name for the Bat. 



I lastly was with Curtis, amon^ the floating )att'rte», 
And there I left for witness an arm ami a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Klliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, Sfc. 

And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg. 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and mycallet 
As when I used in scarlet to follow the drum. 

Lai de daudle, Ifc, 

What tno' the hoary locks, I must otand the windy 

shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes fur a home ; 
When the tother bag I sell, and the to'.her bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of h-11 at the sound of the drum. 

RECITATIVO 

He ended ; and the kehars shenk 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattans backward leuk, 

Aud seek the benmosL bore : 

A fairy fiddler frae the neuk. 

He skirl 'd out encore ! 
But up arose the martial's chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

TUNE-" Soldier Laddie." 

I ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when. 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, ifC, 

The first of my lovers was a swaggering blade. 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight , and his cheek was so ruddy , 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de Lal, tfC, 

But the goodly old chaplain left him in the lurch. 
So the swtjrd 1 forsook for the sake of the church. 
He ventur'd the soul, I risked the bjdy, 
'Twas then 1 prov'd false to my s Jeer laddie. 

Sin, , Lal de lal, Sro, 



150 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Full 80on I greiv sick of the sanctified sol, 
The regiment al large for a husband i got ; 
From the gilded spoatoon to the fife I was ready, 
.f asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

But thepeaceitrediic'dmeto beg in despair, • 
Till 1 met my old boy at a Cunningham fair, 
His rags regimentaj they fiulter'd sae gaudy. 
My heeyt it rejoiced at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, Ifc. 

And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a snng ; 

But whilst with both hands 1 can hold the glass steady. 

Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, Sfc. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk. 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't na what the chorus took. 

Between themselves tliey were sae bizzy 
At IcHRth, wi' drink and courtii.g dizzy, 

He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 
Then turn'd and laid a smack on Grizzy, 

Syne tun'd iiis pipes wi' grave grimace. 

AIR. 
TUNE—" Auld Sir Symon." 

SIR Wisdom's a fool when he's fou 

Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 
He's there hut a 'prentice I trow, 

But 1 am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 

And I held awa to the school ; 
I fear I my talent misteuk ; 

But what o-ill ye hae of a fool? 

For drinfc I would venture my neck ; 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft ; 
But what could ye other expect 

Of one that's avowedly daft ? 

t ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 

For civilly swearing and quaffing ; 
I ance was abus'd i' the kirk, 

For towzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 

Let naebody name wi' a jeer; 
There's ev'n I'm tauld i' the court, 

A tumbler ca'd the Pi 



Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
Makes faces to tickle the mob ; 

HefSiils at our mountebank squad 
It 's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry, 

The chiel that's a fuol for liimsel, 
Gude L — d, is far dafter than I. 



RECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to deck itie sierlin 
For monie a pursie she had hooked, 
And had in monie a well been ducket ; 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie I 
Wi' sighs and sabs, she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlaudma? 

AIR. 

TUNE — " O an' ye were dead guidman. * 

A Ti'^'^lL AND lad my love was born, 
1'ne «jHv b.n' laws he held in scorn ; 
Bu' to still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gaiiant, braw John Highlandnian. 

-CHORUS. 

Sing, hey, my braw John Highlaridman 
S'ns,ho, rmj Ijraw John Hi ghlandman ; 
There^s not a lad in all the /an' 
Was match for my John Highlandman, 

With his phillbeg and tartan plaid, 
And guid claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan. 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, S^e, 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lallan face he feared nane, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman 

Sing, key, &e. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, flrc. 

But oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've haug'd my braw John Highlandman 
Sing, hey, Sfc. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return; 
No comfort liut a hearty can. 
When I think on John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey , IfC, 

RECITATIVO 

A pigmy Scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wlia us'd al trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin limb and gaucy middle. 

(He reach'd iiae higher,) 
Had hol't his heartie like a riddle, 

And blawn't oil fire. 
Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e, 
Hecroou'd his gamut ane, twa, three 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Tb«n, ?L au Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set aff, wi' Allegretto glee, 

His giga solo. 

AIR. 

TONE— " Whistle o'er the lave o't 

LET me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle o'er the lave o't. 

CHORUS. 

lam a fddler to my trade. 
And a' the tunes that c^er Iplay^d, 
The sweetest still to wife or Tnaid, 
Was whistle o^er the lave o^t. 

At kirns and weddings we'sebe there 

And Oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 

We'll bouse about, till Daddie Care 

Sings whistle o'er the lave o't. 

lam, ^'C. 

Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke, 
And sun oursejs about the dyke, 
And at our leisure when we like. 
We'll whistle o'er the lave o't. 

lam, Sfc. 

But bless roe wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And while I kitfle hair on thairms. 
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, 
May whistle o'er the lave o't. 

lam, !Sfc. 

RECITATIVO, 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird 

As weel as poor Gut-scraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a roosty rapier — 
He swcor, by a' was swearing worth, 

To spit him like a pliver, 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

ReUnquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

L. pon his hunkers bended. 
And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae "le quarrel ended. 
Buttho' his little heart did grieve 

When round the tinkler prest her, 
He feign'd to anirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the Caird address'd her : 

AIR. 
TUNE—" Clout the Cauldron." 

MY bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

Id this my occupation ; 



I've taen the gold, I've been enroU'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

rve taen the gold, SfC, 

Despise that shrimp, that w.ther'd imp, 

Wi'a' his noise and carpin, 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron ; 
And by that stoup, my faith and iiou 

And by that dear Kilbadgie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May 1 ne'er wat my craigie. 

And by that stoup, t[e. 

RECITATIVO. 

The Caird prevail'd—th' unblushing feir 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae fair. 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir VioUno, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair. 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that nig 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, 

That play 'da dame a shavie. 
The fiddler rakd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Tho' limping wi' the spavie, 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft. 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie. 

O boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid. 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but — to be glad. 

Nor want — but when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad. 

And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 

TUNE—" For a' that, and a' that," 

I AM a bard of no regard, 

Wi' gentlefolks, and a' that : 
But Homer-like, the glowran pyke, 

Frae town to town I draw that 

CHORUS. 

For ffi' that, and a' that. 
And twice as meikle's a'.that; 

I've had buz ane, I'oe twa behin', 
I've wije enough, for a' that. 



* A peculiar sort of Whiskey, so called | 
vourite with f oosie Nansie's clubs. 



152 



BURNS' POEMS. 



1 never drank the Muses" tank, 

Castalia's burn, and a' tlial ; 
But there it streams, and riclily reams, 

My Helicou I ca' that. 

For a' that, SfC. 

Great love \ bear to a' the fair. 
Their humble slave, and a' that ; 

But lordly will, I hold it stiU 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, l(C. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love, and a' that ; 
But for how lang the flie may stang, 

Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, ^c. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and " Here's the sex 1" 
I like the jads for a' that. 

For a' that, and o' that. 
And twice as meikle'n a' that ; 

Mg dearest bluid, to do them guid, 
TheyWe welcome tilVt, for a' that, 

RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa'e 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks> and pawn'd their duds, 
They scorcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To lowse his pack, and wale a S€mg, 
A ballad o' the best ; 
He, rising, rejoicmg. 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorub. 

AIR. 

TONE—" Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses.' 

SEE ttie smoking bowl before us, 

Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 
Round and round take up the chorus, 

And in raptures let us sing : 



A fig for those by law protected! 

Liberty's a glorious JeastJ 
Courts /or cowards were erected, 

Chxtrches built to please the prietU 

What is title ? What is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care.' 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

*T i no nriatter, how or where ! 

AM, Sf« 

With the ready trick and fable, 

Rou nd we wander all the day 
And at night, in bam or stable. 

Hug our doxies on the hay. 

A fig, i,-e. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rovg? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 

A fig, (re. 

Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 

Afig.^e. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our rased brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out. Amen ! 

A fig, Jf« 



EXTEMPORE. 
April, 1782. 

WHY the deuce should I repine. 
And be an ill foreboder.' 

I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine— 
I'll go and be a sodger. 

1 gat some gear wi' meikle care, 

1 held it weel thegither ; 
But now it's gane and something lUftlr, 
I'll go and be a sodger. 



THE END. 



GLOSSARY. 



THE c4 and ghohve always the guttural sound. The soun-^ of the English diphthong oo, is commonly tptlU 
eilou. The French j<, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked oo, ui. The a 
in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, or followed by an e mute after a 8ine(e conso- 
nant, sounds gen vally like the Broad English a in wall. I'he Scottish dii)hthong ce, always, and ea, »ery 
ofien. sound like the French e masculine. The Scottish diphthong ey, sounds like the La-iiu ei. 



A.. 



A-, All. 

Aback, away, aloof. 

Abeigh, at a shy distance. 

Aboon, above, up. 

Abread, abroad, in sight. 

Abreed,in breadth. 

Addle, putrid water, &c. 

Ae, one. 

Af,oS; Af Zoo/, unpremeditated. 

Ajore, before. 

Aft, oft. 

AJten, often. 

Aeley, ofl" the right line ; wrong. 

Aiblins, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Airle-penny Airles, earnest-money 

Aim, iron. 

Aith, an oath. 

Aits, oats. 

Aiver, an old horse. 

Aizle, a hot ciuder, 

Alake, alas. 

Alane, aJone. 

Akwart, awkward. 

Amaist, almost. 

Annans, among. 

An', and : if. 

Ance, once. 

Ane, one ; and. 

Anent, over against. 

Anilhej, another. 

Ase, ashes. 

Aiklent, as>]uint ; aslant. 

AslteT, abroad ; stirring. 

At/iart, athwa? i. 

Aught, possession; as, in a' my aught, in all my 

possession. 
Auld lang syne, olden time, days of other years. 
AuUi, old. 
Auldfarran, or auld farrant, sagacious, cunning; 

prudent. 
Ava, at all. 
Awa', a^'ful. 

Ajcn, the beard of barley, oats, &c. 
Awnie, bearded. 
Ayont, beyond. 



BA', Ball. 

Backets, ash boards. 

Backiins, coming ; coming back, returniiig. 

Back, returning. 

Ba/l, did bid. 

Baide, endured, did slay. 

Baggie, the belly. 

Bainie, having large bones, stout. 

Bairn, a child. 

Bairntime, a family of children, a brood, 

Baith, both. 

B-in, to swear. 

Bane, bone. 

£iing, to beat ; to strive. ( 

G2 



Bardie, c'-minutive of bard. 

Barefit, barefooted. 

Baimie, of, or like barm. 

Batch, a crew, a gang. 

Batts, bote. 

Ba>idrons, a cat. 

Bauld, bold. 

Bawk, bank. 

Baws'nt, having a white stripe down the lace. 

Be, to let be ; to give over ; to cease. 

Bear, barley. 

B eastie, Aiminutive of beast. 

Beet, to add fuel to fire. 

Beld, bald. 

Belyve, by and by. 

Ben, into the spence or parlour ; a epenee. 

Benlomond, a. noted mountain in Dumbartonshire. 

Bethmtkit, grace after meal. 

Beuk, a book. 

Bicker, a kind of wooden dish ; a ehort race 

Bie, or bield, shelter. 

Bien, weaiihy, plentiful. 

Big, to build. 

Biggin, building ; a house. 

Biggit, built. 

Bill, a bull. 

Billie, a brother ; a young (ellow. 

Bing, a heap of grain, putalues, etc. 

Birk, birch. 

Birken-shaw, Birken-wnod-shaw, a small wood. 

Birkie, a clever fellow. 

Birring, the noise of patridges, &c.when they spring. 

Bit, crisis, nick of time. 

Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. 

Elastic, a shrivelled dwarf ; a term of contempt. 

Blastil, blasted. 

Blate, bashful, sheepish. 

Blather, bla jder. 

Blaud, a flat piece of any thing ; to slap. 

Blaw, to blow, to boast. 

£/eeH/, bleared sore with rheum. 

Bleert arid blin\ bleared and blind. 

Bleezing, blazing. 

Blellum, an idle talking fellow, 

Bleih'rin, talking idly. 

Blink, a little while ; a smiling look ; to loook kind- 
ly ; to shine by tils. 

Blinker, a term of contempt. 

Blinkin, smirking. 

Blue-gown, one of those beggars who pst annually, 
on the king's birtti-day, " blue cloak or gov a, 
with a badge. 

Bluid, blood. 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person. 

Blypc, a shred, a large piece. 

Bock, to vomit, to gush iutermittingly. 

Backed, gushed, vomited, 

Bodle, a small gold coin. 

Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins. 

Bonnie, or bonny, handsome, beautiful. 

Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a em^U Jaa. 
neck, or loaf made uf oatmeal. 

Board, a board. 

Boortree, the shrub elder ; planted much of old la 
hedges of bavn yards, &c. 

Boost, behoved, must neiula. 



154 



GLOSSARY. 



Bore, a hole in the -wall. 

Jiotch, au angry tumour. 

Bousing, drinking. 

Bow-kail, cabbage. 

Bowt, bended, crooked. 
Brackens, fern. 

Brat, a declivity ; aprecipice ; the slope of a hill. 

Braid, broad. 

Brairuig't, reeled forward. 

Braik, a kind of harrow. 

Braindge, to run rashly forward. 

Brak, broke, made insolvent. 

Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horses. 

Brash, a sudden illness. 

Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c. 

Braille, a short race ; hurry ; fury. 

Braw, fine, handsome. 

xirawly, or hrawlie, very well ; finely ; heartily. 

Brojne, a morbid sheep. 

Breaslie, dimniutive of breast. 

Breastil, did spruig up or forward. 

Breckan, fern. 

Breef, an invulnerable or irresistable spell. 

Breeks, breeches. 

Brent, smooth. 

Brewin, brewing. 

Brie, juice, liquid. 

Brig, a bridge. 

Bi-unstane, brimstone. 

Brisket, the breast, the bosom. 

Brilker, a brother. 

Brock, a badger. 

Brogue, a hum ; a trick. 

Broo, broth ; l;(|uid ; water. 

Broose, broth ; a race at country weddings, who 
shall first reach the bridegroom's house ou return- 
ing from church. 

Brows'.er-wioes, ale-house wives. 

Brugh,&\>\xrg'ti. 

Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion. 

Brunt, did burn, burnt. 

Brust, to burst ; burst. 

Buckan-bullers, the boiling of the sea among the 
rocks on the coast of Buchan. 

Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. 

Bug/a, a. pen. 

Bughtin-'ime, the lime of collecting the sheep in the 
pens to be milked. 

Buirdly, stout-made ; broad-made. 

Bum-clock, a humming beetle that flies in the sum- 
mer evenings. 

Bumming, humming as bees. 

Bummle, to blunder. 

Bummler, a blunderer. 

Bunker, a window-seat. 

Burdiea, diminutive of birds. 

Bure, did bear. 

Burn, water ; a rivulet. 

Burnewin, i.e. burn tkewinrf, a blacksmith, 

Burnie, diminutive of burn. 

Buskie, bushy. 

Buskit, dressed. 

Busks, dresses. 

Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle. 

Buss, shelter. 

^>il, bot, with ; without. 

But an' ben, the country kitchen and parlour, 

Bt/ hiTTisel, lunatic, distracted. 

Byke, a bee -hive. 

Bi/re, a cow-stable ; a sheep-pen. 



CA' , To call, to name ; to drive. 
Ca'l, or ca'd, called, driven ; calved. 
Cadger, a carrier. 
V Cadie, or caddie, a person ; a young fellow. 

Caf. chaff. 
Caird, a tinker. 
Cah-n, a loose heap of stones. 
Caff ward, a small enclosure for calves. 
Callnn, a boy. 

Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing. 
CaniK. or ctmnie, penile, mild ; dexterous. 



Carmilie, dexterously ; gently. 

Carttie, or canty, cheerful, merry. 

Cantraip, a ■■harm, a sjiell. 

Cap-slane, coue-sione ; key-stone. 

Careerin, cheerfully. 

Carl, an old man. 

Carlin, a stout old woman. 

Carles, cards. * 

Caudron, a caldron. 

Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay. 

Cnuld, cold. 

Caup, a wooden drinking-Tesael. 

Cesses, taxes. 

Chanter, a part of a bag-pipe. 

Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blow. 

Chaup, a stroke, a blow. 

Cheekit, checked. 

Cheep, a chirp ; to chirp. 

Chiel, or cheel, a young fellow, 

Chimla, or chtmlie, a fire gi ate, a fire-place. 

Chimla-lug, ihe fireside. 

Clattering, shivering, trembling, 

Chockin, choking. 

Chow, to chew ; cheek for chow, side by aide. 

Chuffie, fat-faced. 

ClacluL7i, a small village about a church ; a hamle\. 

Claise, or claes, clothes. 

Claith, cloth. 

ClaiMng, c.olhing. 

Claivers, nonsense ; not speaking sense. 

0^075, clapjier of a mill. 

Clarkit, wrote. 

Clash, an idle tale, the «lory of the day. 

Clatter, to tell idle sluries ; an idle sluiy. 

Claught-, snatched al, laid holJol. 

Claul, to chan ; to scrape. 

Clauleil, scraped. 

Cl"oers, idle stories. 

Claw, to scraich. 

Cleed, to clothe. 

Cleeds, clothes. 

Cleekit, having cauglil. 

Clinkia, jerking; clinking. 

Clinkumbell, he wlio rings the church-belL 

Clips, sliears. 

Chshmaclaver, idle cor veraation. 

Clock, to hatch ; a oeeile. 

Ciockin, hatchins;. 

Cloot, the hoof of a cow, dheep, &c. 

Clootie, an old name for the Uevu. 

Clour, a bump or swelling after a biow. 

Cl'-tds, clouds. 

Coaxin, wheedling. 

Coble, a fishing-b«at. 

Cockemony, a lock of hair tied ujijn a girl't bead • 

a cap. 
Cofl, bought. 
Cog, a wjodeii dish. 
Coggie, dimniutive of co^. 
Colla, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ; so called, 

saith tradition, from Coil, or Cuilus, a . ictish roo.i- 

arch. 
Collie, a general, and sometimes a particular name 

for country curs. 
Collieshangie, quarrelling, an uproar. 
Cominaun, command. 
Cood, the cud. 
Coof. a blockhead ; a ninny. 
Cookit, apueared, anj 'li-aj/peared by fits. 
Coost, did cast. 
Coot, the ancle or fool. 
Coolie, a wooden kitchen dish : — also, those fowls 

whose legs are claxl with Jealhers, are said to be 

cootie. 
Corbies, a species of the crow. 
Core, corps; party; clan. 
Cni-n't, fed with oats. 

Cottier, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or cottage. 
Couthie, kind, loving. 
Cove, a cave. 
Cowe, to terrify ; to keep under, lo lop; a flight • 

a branch of fiirze, bro'-m, &c. 
Cowj>, to barter ; to tumble over ; a |,iiug. 
Cowpit, tumbled. 
Ootcrin, cowermg. 



GLOSSARY. 



155 



Cuwt, a colt. 

Cosv, »iiu^. 

CozUy, suagly. 

Crab^t, cFRDbea, i> etfC , 

Crack, coDversalion ; to converse. 

Crackin, conversing. 

Craft, or crojt, a field near a house (in old hits- 

baiulry.) 
Craikg, cries or calls incessantly ; t. bird. 
Crambo-ciink, or crambo-jingle, rhymes, dcggerel 

verses. 
Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel. 
Crankous, fretiui, captious. 
Cr.anreuck, the hoarfrost. 
Crap, a crop ; to crop. 
Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook. 
Creel, a basket ; to have one's wits in a creel, to oe 

crazed ; to be fascinated. 
Creepie-stool, the same as cutty-stool. 
Creeshie, greasy. 
Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove, 
Cro-^n, a hollow and continued moau ; to make a 

noise like the continued roar of a buU j to hum a 

tune. 
Crooning, hummirtg. 
Crouchie, crook-backed. 
Crouse, cheerful ; courageous. 
Crousel.y, cheerfully ; courageously. 
Crowdie, a compositioT of oal-nieal and boiled wa- 
ter, sometimes from the broth of ueef, mutton, &c. 
Crowdie-time, breakfast t.me. 
Croi"lin, crawling. 

CrumnviCk , a cow with crooked horns. 
Crump, hard and brittle ; spoken of bread, 
Crunl, a blow on the head wiih a cudgel. 
Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny. 
Cummock, a short stall" with a crooked head. 
Curchie, a courtesy. 
Curler, a player at a game on the ice, practised in 

Scotland, called curling. 
Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally in ringlets. 
Curling, a well known game on the ice. 
Curmurring, murmuring ; a slight rumbling noise. 
CHrpiji, the crupper 
Cuifcat, the dove, or wood-pigeon. 
Cutty, short ; a spocn broken in the middle. 
Cutty-stool the stool of repentance. 



DAOniE, a father. 

Dofjin, merriment ; foolishness. 

Z)a/^ merry, giday ; foolish. 

Diiimen, rare, now and then ; daimenicker, an ear 

of corn now and then. 
Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, ugreeaMe. 
Daise, daez, tu slup;fy. 
Dales, i)iains, valleys, 
Darklins, darkling. 
Daud, ;o thrash, to abuse. 
Daur, to dare. 
Daurt, dared. 

Dmtrg, or daurk, a day's labour. 
Dnvnc, David. 
Daiod, a large piece. 
Dawtit, or d.awtet, fundled, caressed. 
Dearies, diminutive of dears. 
Dearthfu\ dear. 
Deave, lO deafer.. 

Deil-ma-care .' no matter 1 for all that I 
Deleerit, delirious. 
Descrive, to descibe. 
Digkt, to wipe ; to clean com from chaff. 
Digkt, cleaned from chnfF. 
Di?is, to worst, to push. 
Dink, neat, tidy, drim. 
Dinna, do ..ot. 

Dirl, a slight tremulous sti jke or pain. 
Dizen, or dizz'r, a dozen. 
Doited, stupified, hebetated 
Dolt, 3\.\i ifted, crazed. 
Uoiisie, unlucky. 

Doo ;, Bc row ; to sing dool. to lament, to mocrn 
Oaoa, d>-e8. 



Dorty, saucy ; nice. 

Douce, or doxise, sober, wi'd, prudent. 

Doucely, soberly, prndei-tly. 

Dought, was or were able. 

Doup, backside. 

Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail. 

Dour and din, sullen and sa.low. 

Doure, sloiit. durable ; sullen, slubboni. 

Dow, am or are able, can. 

Dowff, pithless, wanting force. 

Dowie. worn with grief, fa-'.£ue, .I'c. Iial' asleep. 

Downa, am or are not able, cannot. 

D'lylt, stupid. 

Dozen't, stupified, impotent. 

Drap, a drop ; to drop. 

Draigle, to soil by trailing, todraee'.e amo ig wet, &c. 

Dropping, dropping. 

Draunting, drawling ; of a slow enunciation. 

Dreep, to ooze, m drop. 

Dreiiih, tedi'^us, long about it. 

Dribble, dmiMn^; slaver 

Drift, a drove. 

Droddum, the breech. 

Drone, part of a bagpipe. 

Droop-rumpl't, that drops at tne crupper. 

Droukit, wet. 

D-^ounting, drawling. 

Drouth, thirst, ilrought. 

Druncken, drunken. 

Drumly, muddy. 

Drummock, meal ar ) water mixed in a raw state. 

Drunt, ret, sour humour. 

Dub, a small p'>nd. 

Duds, rags, clothes. 

Duddie, ragged. 

Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven. 

Dunted, beaten, boxen. 

Dush, to push as a ram, &3. 

Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox, &c. | 



E. 



B'S, theeye. 

E'en, the eyes. 

E'enin, evening. 

Eerie, frighted, dieading spirits. 

Eild, old age. 

Elbuck, the elbow. 

Eldritch, ghastly, frightful. 

Eller, an elder, or chosci offic<r« 

En\ end. 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 

Eneugh, enough. 

Especial, especially. 

Ettle, to try, to attempt. 

Eydent, diligent. 



FA\ fall ; lot ; to fall. 

Fa's, does fall ; water-falls. 

Fa/idom't, fathomed. 

Fae, a foe. 

Faem, foam. 

Faiket, unknown, 

Fairin, a fairing ; a present. 

Fallow, fellow. 

Fand, did find. 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &e. 

Fash, trouble, care ; to troutile to : 

Fa-iht, troubled. 

Fasteren e'en, Fasten's Even. 

Fauld, a fold , to fold. 

Faulding, folding. 

Faul, iault. 

F'lute, want, lack. 

Fatcsont, decent, seemly. 

Feal, a field : smooth. 

Fearfu' , frightful. 

Fear't, frighted. 

Feat, neat, spruce. 

Fechtf to fight. 

Fe£htin, fighting. 



156 



GLOSSARY. 



Keck, many, plenty. 

Pvcket, an under waia' joat with sleeres. 

Feckfu', large, brawny, stout. 

Fecklens, puny, weak, silly. 

Feckly, weakly. 

Fez^ a fig. 

Feide, feud, enmity. 

Feirrie, stoat, vigorous, healthy. 

Fell, keen, biting ; the flesb immediately under the 

skin ; a field pretty level, on the side or top of a 

hill. 
Fen, successful struggle ; fight. 
Fend, to live comfortably. 
Ferlie, or ferley, to wonder ; a wonder ; a term of 

contempt. 
Fetch, ij pull by fits. 
FetchH, pul.ad intermittently. 
Fidge, to fidget. 
Fjel, soft, smooth. 
Fient, ficp a petty oath. 
Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother ; a friend. 
Fissle, to make a ru.siling noise ; to fidget ; a bustle. 
Fit, a foot. 
Fittie-lan\ the nearer horse of the hindmost pair in 

the plough. 
Fizz, to make a hissing noise like fermentation. 
Flainen, flannel. 

Fleech, to supplicate in a flattering manner. 
Flsech'd, supplicated. 
Fleechin, suiiplicaiiiig. 
Fleesk, a fleece. 
FUg, a kick, a random. 
Fleiher, to aecoy by fair words. 
Fletkerin, flattering. 
Fiey, to scare, to frighten. 
Flicarer, to flutter, as yrung nestling* when their 

dam approaches. 
Flinders, shreils, broken pieces, sphnters. 
Flinging-tree. a. piece of timber hung by way of par- 
tition bet^'een two horses in a stable ; a fiail. 
Flisk, to fret at the yoke. Flishit, fretted, 
Futter, to vibrate like the wings of small birds. 
Flittering, fluttering, vinraiiag. 
Flunkie, a servant in livety. 
Fodgel, squat and plump. 
Foord, a ford. 
Forbears, forefathers. 
Fnrbye, besides. 

Forfairn, distressed ; worn outjaded. 
Forfoughten, fatigued. 
Fjrgalker, to meet, to encounter with. 
Forgie, to forgive. 
Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. 
Father, fodder. 
Fou, lull ; drunk. 
Foughten, troubled, harassed. 
Fouih, plenty, enough, or more than enough. 
Fow, a bushel, &c. ; also a pitch-fork. 
Frae, from ; ofl". 

Frammit, otrange, estranged from, at enmity with. 
Freath, froth. 
Frien' , friend. 
Fu\ full. 

Fiid, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, &c. 
Fuff, to blow intermittently. 
Fuff't, did blow. 
Furmie, full of merriment. 
Fur, a furrow. 
Fumi, a form, bench. 
Fyke, trifling cares ; to piddle, to hfc in a fuss about 

trifles. 
Fyle, to soil, to Jirty. 
Fyl'l, soiled, dirtied. 



G. 



GAB, the mouth ■ to apeak boldly, or penly. 

Gaber-lvnzie. an old man. 

Gadsnum, a ploNghboy, the boy that drives the 
horses in the plo.igh. 

Gae, to go ; gaea, went ; gaen, organs, gone ; gaun, 
going. 

Gael, or gate, wsy, manner , road. 

Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth sewed on the bot- 
tom of a gown, &c 



Gang, to go, to walk. 

Gar, to make, to lorce to. 

GarU, forced to. 

Garten, a garter. 

Chxsh, wise, sagacious ; talkative ; to converM. 

Gashin, conversing. 

Gaucy, jolly, large. • 

Gaud, a plough. 

Gear, riches ; goods of any kind. 

Geek, to toss the head in wantonness or scorn. 

Ged, a pike. 

Gentles, great folks, gentry. 

Genly, elegantly formed, neat. 

GeordiL, a guinea. 

Get, a child, a young one. 

Ghaist, a ghost. 

Gie, to give ; gied,, gave ; glen, givea. 

Giftie, diminutive of gilt. 

Giglets, playful girls. 

Gillie, diminutive of giU. 

Gilpey, a half grt.-wn', half informed boy or girl, 

romping lad, a hoiden. 
Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years olr*.. 
Gin, if ; against. 
Gipsey, a young girl. 
Gim, to grin, to twist the features in rage, agony, 

&c. 
Girning, grinning. , 
Gizz, a periwig. 
Glaikit, inattentive, ♦polish. 
Glaive, a sword. 

Gnwky, half-witted, foolish, r-'mping. 
Glaiz'ie, glittering ; smooth like glass. 
Glaum, to snatch greedily. 
GuLurn'd, aimed, snatched, 
deck, sharp, ready. 
Gleg, sharp, ready. 
GUib, glebe. 

Glen, a dale, a deep valley, 
Gley, a squint; to squint ; n.-gley, off at a lidtf 

wrong. 
Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech. 
Glint, to peep. 
Glinted, peeped. 
Glinlin, peeping. 
Gloamin, the twilight. 
Glowr, to stare, tolook ; a stare, a look. 
Glowred, looked, stared. 
Glunsh, a frown, a sour look. 
Goavan, looking round with a strange, inquiriuf 

gaze ; slariiur stupidly. 
Gowan, the flower of the wild daisy, hawk-wjed te. 
Gnwnny, daisied, abounding with daisies. 
Gnwa, gold. 
Goirff, the game of Golf; to strike as the bat doei 

the hell at solf. 
GowJ'd, struck. 

Gowk, a cookoo ; a term of conl.nipt. 
Gowl, to howl. 

Grrine, or grain, a groan ; to groaji. 
Grnin'd and grunted, groaned and grunted. 
Grainins , groaning. 

Graip, a pronged instrument for cleanine stables. 
Graitk, accoutrements, furniirre, dress, gear. 
Grannie, grandmother. 
Grnpe, to grope. 
Grr/pil, groped. 
Grat, wept, shed tears. 
Great, intimate, familiar. 
Gree, to agree ; to bear the gree, to \ie df cidedly 

victor. 
Gree't, agreed. 
Greet, to shed tears, to weep. 
Greetia, ciying, weeping. 
Grippet, catc*-ed, seized. 
Groat, to gel the whistle of one's groat, to play a 

losing game, 
Gronsome, loathsomely, grim. 
Grozet, a gooseberry. 
Gramph, a grunt ; to grunt. 
C-rumphie, a sow. 
Grun\ ground. 
frrunstane, a srindstone. 
Grunl/e the phiz • u grunting nol*e. 
Grimzie, moutri. 
Gruihie, thick ; of thriving growth. 



GLOSSARY. 



157 



0««4, the Soprerne Being ; good. 

tTuvi, euod. 

Guid'Tnornin^, good morrow. 

Cruid-e'en, good evening. 

Guidman and giiidwife, the master and mistress of 
the lioOse; young guidman, a. ma.auev>lytna.rried. 

Oiufl-wiUie, liberal ; cordial. 

Guidfzlher, guidmother, father-in-law, and mother- 
in-law. 

Chilljl, or gullie, a 'arge knife. 

Gumiie, muddy. 

Gusty, tasteful. 



H. 



HA', hall. 

Ha'-Bible, the great bible tl.at lies in the hall. 

Hae, to have. 

Haen, had, the participle. 

JHaet , fietit , liaet, a peiiy oath of negation ; nothing, 

Haffet, the temple, the tide of the head. 

HaJJms, nearly half, partly. 

tJag, a scar, or gulf, or ^ulf in mosses, and moors. 

Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the stomach of 

a cow or sheep. 
Hain, to spare, to save. 
Ilain'd, spared. 
HnirsL, harvest. 
Haith, a petty oath. 

haivers, nonsense, speaking without thooght. 
Hal' , or hald, an abiding place. 
Hale, whole, tight, healthy. 
Hniy, holy. 
Hnme, home. 
Hallan, a particular partition-w&I. in a ecttage, or 

more properly a seat of turf at the outside. 
Hallowmas , Haf'o-w-eve, the 31st of October, 
Hamely, homely, affable. 
han', or haun' , hand. 
Hnp, an outer ^rn)eat,SiaBtle, plaid, &c.to wrap, 

to ccv r ; to hop. 
Happer, a hopper. 
Happing, hopphig 

Hap step an' loup, hep drip and leap. 
Harkit, hearkened. 
Harn, very coarsj linen. 
Hash, a fellow that neitber knows how to dress nor 

act with propriety. 
Hastit, hastened. 
HaJid, to hold. 

Hatighs, low lying, rich lands ; Talleys. 
Wturl, to drag ; to peel. 
Haurlin, peeling. 

Htverel, a half-witted person ; half-witted. 
H ivins, good manners, decorum, good sense. 
Hawlcie, a cow, properly one with a white face. 
He 'pit, heaped. 

/feaZsoTOS, healthful, wholesome. 
Hearse, hoarse. 
Henr't. hear it. 
J'^nther, heath. 
Hech I oh ! .strange. 
Heckt, promised . t-i foretell something that is to be 

got or given : foretold ; the thing foretold ; offered. 
Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a number of 

sharp pins, used in dressing hemp, flax, &c. 
Heeze, to elevate, to raise. 
Helm, the rudder or helm. 
Herd, to tend flocks ; one who tends flocks. 
Herrin, a herring. 
Herry, to plui.der ; most properly to plunder birds' 

nests. 
Herryment, plundering, devastation. 
Nersei, herself; also a herd of cattle, of any sort. 
Het, hot. 

Heugh, a crag, a coalpit. 
Hilch, % hobble ; to halt. 
Hiichin, halting. 
Himsel, himself. 
Hiney, honey. 



Uirple, to walk crazily, to creep. 
Missel, so many cattle as one person i 
ifisfie, dry ; chapped, barien. 
Hitch, a loop, a knot. 



attend. 



Hizzie, s hnssy. a young ei^ 

Hoddin the rautiim o' a sage countryman riding oo 

a cart-horse ; humble. 
Hog-score, a kina of distance line, in curling, drawn 

across the rink. 
Hog-skouther, a kind of horse play, by justling with 

the shoulder; to justle. 
Hool, oute- skin or case, a nut-shell ; a peas-cod. 
Honlie, sicwly, leisurely. 
Hooliel take'leibure> stop. 
Hoard, a hoard ; to hoard. 
Hoordit, horded. 
Horn, a spoon made of horn. 
Hornie, one of the many names of the devil. 
Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough. 
Hostin, coughing. 
Hosts, coughs. 

Holch'd, turned topsyturvy ; blended, mixed. 
Houghmagnndie, fornication. 
Houiet , an owl. 
Hoitsie, diminutive of house. 
Hove, to heave, to swell. 
Hov'd, heaved, swelled. 
Howdie, a midwife. 
Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell. 
Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a k«m,ftf 
Howff, a tipphng house ; a house of resort. \ 
Howk, to dig. 
Howkil, digged. 
Howkin, digging. 
Howlet, an owl. 
Hoy, to urge. 
Hoy'l, urged. 
Hcyse, to pull upwards. 
Hoyte, to amble crazily. 
Hughoc. diminutive of Hugh. 
Harcheon, a hedgehog. 
H.Tdies, the loins. 
Hushion, u cushion. 



I. 



/ ', m. 

Icker, an ear of com. 

ler-oe, a great-grandchild. 

Ilk, or Dha, each, every. 

Ill-Willie, ill-natured, malicious, nlg^nfly. 

Ingine, genius, ingenuity. 

Ingle, fire ; ftre-place. 

Ise,l shall or will. 

Ither, other ; one another. 



J. 



J AD, jade : also a familiar term among country folks 

for a giddy young girl. 
Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 
Jaukin, trifling, dallying. 

Jaup, a jerk of water ; to jerk as agitated water. 
Jaw, a coarse raillery ; to pour out ; to shut, to jerK 

as water. 
Jerkinet, a jerkin, or short gown. 
,/"i/Ze^, a jilt, a giddy girl. 

Jimp, to jump ; slender in the waist ; handsome. 
Jimps, easy stays. 
Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner ; a sudden turning; 

a corner. 
Jinker, that turns quickly ; a gay, sprightly girl ; a 

wag. 
Jinkin, dodging. 
Jirk, a jerk. 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife. 
Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head. 
Jow, tojow, a verb which includes both the »winf< 

ing motion and pealing sound of a large be!.. 
Judie, to justle. 



K. 



KAE, a daw. 

Kail, colewort ; a kind of orolh. 

Koil-riml, the stem of cole-ort. 

Knin, fowls, cic paid as rent by a farmer. 



158 



GLOSSARY. 



Kibhuck, a cheese. 

Keckle to giggle ; to titter. 

Keek, a peep, to peep. 

Kelpies, a sort of mischievous spirits, said to hauat 

fords and Jerries at night, especially in storms. 
Ken, to know ; keiid or kenn'd knew. 
Kenniii, a small in;itler 
Kenspeckle, well known, easily known. 
Ket, mattfld, hairy ; a fleece of wool. 
Kilt, to truss up the clothes. 
Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip. 
Ki I, kindred ; kin', kind, id/. 
King's-hood, a certain part of the entrails of an ox, 

&c. 
Kintra, country. 
Kintra Cooser, country stallion. 
Kirn, the harvest supper ; a churn. 
Kirsen, to christen, or haptize. 
Kist, a chest ; a shop counter. 
Kitchen, any thing that eats with bread ; to serve 

for soup, gravy, &c. 
Kitk, kindred. 

Kiltie, to tickle ; ticklish ; lively, apt. 
Kittlin, a young cat. 
Kiuttle, to' cuddle. 
Kiuttlin, cuddling. 

K'icgaie, like knags, or points of rocks. 
Knirp, to strike sharply, a smart blow. 
Knappin-hami,i,er, a hammer tor breaking stones, 
Knowe, a small round hillock. 
Kmtrl, a dwarf. 
Kye, cows. 

Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. 
Kyle, the helly. 
Kyilie, to discover j to show one's self. 



i^ADDTE, diminutive of lad. 

Laggf.n, the angle between the side and bottom of a 
wooden dish. 

Lngh, low. 

Liiring, wading, and sinking in snow, mud, &c. 

Lailli, loath. 

Lnthfu', bashful, sheepish. 

Lallans, the Scottish dialect of the English lan- 
guage. 

Lxm'ne, diminutive of lamb. 

Limpit, a kind of shell fish, alirapit. 

L'ln' , land ; estate. 

Lane, lone ; my larie, thy lane, !fc. myself alone, &c. 

Ijvnely, lonely. 

Lang, long ; to think lang, to long, to weary. 

J-i'ip, did leap. 

L'Lvc, the rest, the remainder, the others. 

Laverock, the lark. 

Lnwin, shot, reckoning, bill. 

Liwland, lowland. 

Lea'd, to leave. 

Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 

Lea-rig, grassy ridge. 

Lear, (pronounce lare,) learning. 

L'ie-lang, live-long. 

Leesome, pleasant. 

Leeze-ms, a phrase of congratulatory endearment; 
I am happy in thee, or proud of thee. 

Leister, a three pronged dart for striking fiah. 

L ugh, did Itiugh. 

Luk, a look ; to look. 

Ltbbet, gelded. 

Lift, the sky. 

Lightly, sneeringly ; to sneer at. 

Lilt, a ballad ; a tune ; to sing. 

Limmir, a kept mistress, a strumpet. 

Limp't, limped, hobbled, 

J .ink, to trip along. 

Linkin, tripping. 

Linn, a water-fall ; a precipice. 

Lint, flax ; lint i' the bell, Uax in flower. 

Lintwhite, a linnet. 

Loan, or loanin, the place of milking. 

Lonf, the palm of the hand. 

Loot, did let. 

Loooct, plural of loot. 



Loun, a fellow, a ragamuflin ; a woman of euf 

virtue. 
Loup, jump, leap. 
Lowe, a flame. 
Lowin, flaming. 

Lowrie, abbreiliation of Lawrence. 
Lowse, to loose. 
Lows'd, loosed. 
Lug, the ear ; a handle. 

Luggel,. having a handle. ^ 

Luggie, a small wooden dish with a handle. 
Lum, the chimney. 

Lunch, a lai-ge piece of cheese, tlesh, &c. 
Lunt, a column of smoke ; to oinoke. 
Luntin, smoking. 
LyarC, or a mixed colour, gray. 



MAE, more. 

Mair, more. 

Maist, most, almost. 

Mciistly, mostly. 

Mak, to make. 

Makm, making. 

Mailen, a farm. 

Mallie, Molly. 

Mang, among, 

Manse, the parsonage housK, where the minista 

lives. 
Manteele, a mantle. 
Mark, marks, (This and several other noima 7sh.tch 

in English require an s, to form the plural, art 

in Scotch, like the words sheep, deer, c/ie aamt 

in both numbers.) 
Marled, variegated ; spotted. 
Mar's year, the year 1715. 
Marsnlum, meslin, inixed corn. 
Mask, to mash, as malt, &c. 
Maskin-pat, a tea-pot. 

Mand, maad, a plaid worn by shepherds, &c. 
Maukin, a hare. 
Maun, must. 
Mavis, the thiush. 
Maw, to mow. 
Mawin, mowing. 
Mecre, a mare. 
Meikle, vneicklr, much. 
Melancholioae, mournful. 
Melder, corn, or grain of any kind, sent to the mil 

to be ground. 
Mell, to meddle. Also a mallet for pounding barley 

in a stone trough. 
Mclvie, to soil with meal. 
Men', to mend. 

Mense, good manners, decorum. 
■ Menseless, ill bred, rude, impudent 
Messin, a small dog. 
Midden, a dunghill. 

Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a dunghill 
Mim, prim, affecte<lly meeK. 
Min', mind ; resemblance. 
Mind't, mind it ; resolved, intending 
Minnie, mother, dam. 
Mirk, mirk St, dark, darkest. 
Misca', to abuse, tccall names. 
Misca'd, abused. 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unmannerly. 
Misteuk, mistook. 
Mither, a mother. 
Mlxti'i-maxliK, confusedly mixed, 
Moistify, to moisten. 
Mony, or monie, many. 
Moots, dust, earth, the earth of the grave. Ibr«k» 

i' t/ie mx)ols ; to lay in the dust. 
Moop, to nibble as a sheep. 
Moorlan' , of or b( longing to moors. 
Morn, the next day, to-morrow. 
Mou, the mouth. 
Moudiwort, a mole. 
Mo isi", diminutive of mouse. 
Muckle, or mickle, great, big, much. 
Muaie, diminutive of muse. 



GLOSSARY. 



159 



MiisKn-kail, broth, composed aimply of water 

sheiled-barley, and greeivs. 
Miitchkin, an English pint. 
Mysel, myself. 



N. 



SA, no, not, nor. 

iVnie, uu, not any. 

Naelhiiig, or naithing, nothing. 

Naig, a horse. 

Na/te, none. 

Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy. 

Negleckit, neglected. 

Neuk, a nook. 

Niest, next. 

Nieue, the fist. 

Nieocfu', handful. ' 

NiffeT, an exchange ; to exchange, to barter. 

Niger, a negro. 

Nine-tail' d-cat, a hangman's whip. 

Nit, a nut. 

Norland, of or belonging to the north. 

Notic't, noticed. 

Nowte, black cattle. 



O. 



O', of. 

Ochels, name of mountains. 
O haith, O faitli ! an oath. 
0«y, or o/iie, any. 
Or, is often used for ere, before. 
Ora, or orra, supernumerary, that can be spared. 
OH, of it. 

O/irze, shivering; drooping. 
0.jrsel, or oursels, ourselves. 
O itlers, cattle not houbed. 
Ower, over ; loo. 

Ower-hip, a v.'ay of fetching a blow with the ham- 
mer over the arm. 



P. 



PACK, intimate, familiar ; twelve atone of wool. 

Paiiich, paunch. 

Paitrick, a patridge. 

Pang, to cram. 

Parle, speech. 

Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a well-known Scotch 
dish. 

Pat, did put ; a pot. 

Pattle, or pettle, a plough-staff. 

Paiighty, proud, haughty. 

Pauky, or pawkie, cunning, sly. 

Pny't, paid ; beat. 

Peck, to fetch the breath short, as in an asthma. 

Picfian, the crop, the stomach. 

Peelin, peeling, tlie rind of fruit. 

Pet, a domesticated sheep, &c. 

Pettle, to cherish ; a plough-staff. 

Philibegs, short petticoats worn by the Highland- 
men. 

Phraise, fair speeches, flattery ; to flatter. 

Phraisin, flattery. 

Pibroch, fiighland war music adapted to the bag- 
pipe. 

Pickle, a small quantity. 

Pine, pain, uneasiness. 

Pit, to put. 

Placard, a public proclamation. 

Plack, an old Scotch coin, the third part of a Scotch 
penny, twelve of which make an Enghsh penny. 

Plockless, pennyless, without money. 

Platie, diminutive of plate. 

Plew, or pleiigh, a plough. 

Pliskie, a trick. 

Poind, to seize cattle or goods for rent, as the laws 
of Scotland allow. 

Poorti h, poverty. 

Pou, topuU. 

POUK, to pluck. 



Poiissit a. nare, ir cat. 

Pout, a poult, a chick. 

Po.i't, did pull. 

Powlhery, hue powder. 

Pow, the head, the smill. 

Powid.-, a little hoise. 

Powtker, or pouthtT, powder. 

Preen, a pin. 

Prenl, to print ; print. 

Prie, to taste. 

Prie'd, tasted. 

Prief, proof. 

Przg, to cheapen ; to dispute. 

Priggin, cheapening. 

Primsie, demure, precise. 

Propone, to lay down, tu propose. 

Provosts, provosts. 

Puddock-slool, a mushroom, fungus. 

Pund, pound ; pounds. 

Pyle—a. pyle o' cliujf, a single grain of choff. 



QUAT, to quit. 
Qu ik, to quake. 
Quey, a cow from one i 



RAGWEED, the herb ragwort. 

Raihle, to rattle nonsense. 

Rair, to roar. 

Raize, to madden to inflame. 

Ram-feezCd, fatigued ; overspread 

Rrvm-stnm, thoughtless, forward. 

Raploch, (properly) a coarse cloth ; but used at an 

adnounfor coarse. 
Rarely, excellently, very well. 
Rash, a rush ; rash-buss, a bush of rushes. 
Ration, a rat, 

Puuc/e, rash ; stout; fearless. 
Raught, reached. 
Raw, a row, 
Rax, to stretch. 
R'-am, cream ; to cream. 
Reaming, brimful, frothing. 
R ave, rove. 
Ri^ck, to hKed. 
Redri, counsel ; to counsel. 

Riid-wnt-shod , walking in blood over the shoe-lopi. 
Rtd-wnd, stark mad. 
Bee, half-drunk, fuddled. 
Reek, smoke. 
R :ekin, smoking. 
Reekit, smoked ; smoky. 
Remtad, remedy, 
Rrq^dte, requited. 
R^st, to stand restive. 
iJ. stit, stood restive ; stunted ; withered. 
Restricked, restricted. 
Rew, to repent, to compassionate. 
Rief, reef, plenty. 
Ri'f randies, sturdy beggars. 
Rig, a ridge. 
Rigwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain that cross 

the saddle of a horse to support the spokss cf a 

cart; spare, withered, sapless. 
Rin, to run, to melt ; rinnin, running. 
Rink, the course of the stones; a terrain curliu? 

on ice. 
Rip, a handful of unthreshed corn. 
Riskit, made a noise like the tearing of roots. 
Rockin, spinning on the rock or distaff. 
Rood stands likewise for the plural roods. 
Roon a shred, a border or selvage 
Roose, to praise, to commend. 
Roosty, rusty. 

Roun', round, in the circle of neighbourhood. 
Roiipet, hoarse, as with a cold. 
Roiithie, plentiful. 
Row, to roll, to wrap. 
Row't, rolled, wrapped. 
Rowte, to low, to bellow. 
Rowth. or roit.h, plenty. 
Rowtin, lowing. 



t60 



GLOSSARY. 



Rozet, roiin. 

Rung, a cudgel. 
Rankled, wrinkled. 
Runt, the stem of colewort or cabbage 
Ruth, a womao's name ; the book so called ; Bor- 
row. 
Ryky, to reach. 



S. 



SAE, 80. 

Saft, 

Hair, to serve ; a sore. 

ii'airly, or sairlie, sorely. 

Saie't, served. 

Sar/c, ashirt : a shift. 

^'nrkit, provided in shirU. 

Sough, the willow. 

Saul, soul. 

Saumont, salmon. 

'j'aunt, a saint. 

Saut, salt, adj. salt. 

Sew, to sow. 

Sawin, sowijig. 

Sa.r, six. 

Scaith, to damage, to injure ; injury. 

hear, a cliff. 

Scatid, to scald. 

Scauld, to scold. 

Scaur, apt to be scared. 

iScawl, a scold ; a teriiugant. 

Scon, a cake of bread. 

Scon?ier, a loathing; to loathe. 

Scr<iic/i, to scream as a hen, partridge, &c. 

Screed, to tear ; a rent. 

Scriive, to glide swiftly along. 

Scrievin, gleesoraely ; swiftly. 

Scrimp, to scant. 

Scrimpet, did scant ; scanty. 

See'd, did see. 

Seizin, seizing. 

Stl, self ; a body's set, one'a self alone. 

Sell't, did sell. 

iien', to send. 

St^n't, I, ic. sent, or did send it ; send it. 

Servnn', servant. 

Seltlin, settling ; to get a settlin, to be frighted into 

quietness. 
Sets, sets off; goes away. 
Slinchled, distorted ; shapeless. 
Shaird, a shred, a shard. 
Skangan, a stick cleft at one end for putting the tail 

of a rlog, &;c. into, by way of mischief, or to fright- 
en him away. 
iSAoixr, a humourous wag ; a barber. 
Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hollow. 
Sheen, bright, shining. 
Sheepshank ; to think one's self nae sheep-shank , 

to be conceited. 
Sherra-moor , sheriff-moor, the famous battle fought 

in the rebellion, A. D. 1715. 
Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice. 
Shiel, a shed, 
Shill, shrill. 

Shog, a shock ; a push off at one side. 
Shool, a shovel. 
Shoon, shoes. 

Shore, to offer, to threaten. 
Shored, offered. 
Shoiither, the shoulder, 
S^ , re, did shear, shore. ^ 

Sic, such. 

Sicker, sure, steady. 
Sidelins, sidelong, slanting. 
Siller, silver ; r.iouey. 
Simmer, summer. 
Sin, a son. 
Sin', since. 
SIcnith, see scaith. 
Skellum, a worthless fellow 
Skelp, to strike, to slap; to walk with a smart 

Irippinff step ; a smart stroke. 
Skelpie-limmer, a rejU'oachful term in female 

scolding. I 



Skelpin, stepping, walking. 

Skiegh, or skeigh, proud, nice, high-mettled. 

Skinklin, a small portion. 

Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly. 

Skirli ng, shrieking, crying. 

Skirl't, shrieked. 

Sklent, slant; to run, aslant, to deviate from 
truth. 

Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique direction. 

Skouth, freedom to converse without restraint ; 
range, scope. 

Skriegh, a scream ; to scream. 

Skyrin, shining ; making a gi-eat show. 

SJn/ie, force, very forcible motion. 

Slae, a sloe. 

Slade, did slide. 

Slap, a gate ; a breach in a fence. 

Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva. 

Slaw, slow. 

Slee, s]y; sleest sliest. 

Sluekit, sleek ; sly. 

Sliddery, slippery. 

Slype, to fall over, as a wet fuiiow from the plouelk 

Slypet, fell. 

Srna' , small. 

Smi.ddutn, dust, powder ; mettle, Pense. 

Smiddy, a smithy. 
SmooT, to smother. 
Smoor'd, smothered. 

Smoulie, smutty, obscene, ugly. 

Smytrie, a numernus collection of small individual* 

Snapper, to stumble, a stumble. 

Snnsh, abuse, Billingsgate. 

SnaWySnow ; to snow. 

Snaw-broo, melted snow. 

Snawie, snowy. 

S'teck, snick, the latch of a door. 

Sued, to lop, to cut off. 

Sneeshin, snuff. 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 

Snell, bitter, biting. 

Snick-drawing, trick-contriving, crafty. 

Snirtle, to iauffh reslrainedly. 

Snood, a ribbon for binding tlie harr. 

Snool, one whose spirit is broken with oppresHiv* 

slavery ; to submit tunitly, to srieak. 
Snoove, to go smoothly and constantly, to sneak. 
Stiowk, to scent or snuff, as a dog, &c. 
Snowkit, scented, snuffed. 

Sonsir, having sweet engaging looks; lucky, jolly 
5^oom, to swim. 
Sojih, truth, a petty oath. 
Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on the ear. 
Soi.pI.e, flexible ; swifl. 
Souter, a shoemaker. 

Sowens, a dish made of oatmeal ; the seeds of oat- 
meal soured, &c. flumery. 
Sowp, a spoonful, a small quantity of any thing li- 
quid. 
Sowth, to try over a tune with a low whistle. 
Sowther, solder ; to solder, to cement. 
Spae, to prophesy, to divine. 
Spavl, a limb. 

Spriirge, to dash, to soil, as with mire. 
SpaviiJ, having the spavin. 
Spean, sprna, to wean. 
Speat or spate, a sweeping tTrent, after rain or 

thaw. 
Speel, to climb. 
Spence, the country parlour. 
Spier, to ask, inquire. 
Spier't, inquired. 
Splatter, a splutter, to splutter. 
Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch. 
Splore, a frolic ; a noise, rint. 
Sprackle, spracUe, to clamber. 
Sprattle, to scramble. 
Speckled, spotted, speckled. 
Spring, a quick air in music : a Scottish reel. 
Sprit, a tough-rooted plant, something like rui>he». 
Sprittie, full of spu'it. 
t>pu7ik, fire, mettle ; wit. 
Spunl.ie, mettlesome, fiery ; will-o'-wisp, or tgnit 

Jataus. 
Spurtle, a stick used in making oatmaal p-idding or 
porridge. 



GLOSSARY. 



161 



S^ad, a crew, a party. 

Squatter, to flutter in water, aa a wild duck, 4c. 

Squattle, to S|.iawl. 

Sgueel, a scream, a screech ; to scream. 

iitacher, to stagger. 

tytack, a rick of corn, hay, &c. 

Staggie, the diminutive of stag. 

Stalwart, strong, stout. 

Slant, to stand ; start' t, did stand. 

ftane, a stone. 

Staiig, an acute pain ; a twinge ; to atinf . 

Stank, did stink ; a pool of standing water. 

•■> tap, Slop. 

Stark, stout. 

■St irtU, to run as cattle stung by the gad-fly. 

.■>taumrel, a blockhead ; half-witted. 

Slaw, did steal ; to surfeit. 

Stech, to cram the belly. 

Steehin, crammiiig. 

Steek, to shut ; a siitch. 

Steer, to molest ; to stir. 

Sleeve, firm, compacted. 

Stell, a still. 

Sten, to rear as a horse. 

Sten't, reared. 

Slenis. tribute ; dues of any kind. 

Stfy, steep ; steyest, steepest. 

Stibble, stubble ; slibblerig, the reaper ia harvest 
who takes the lead. 

Srick an' stow, totally, altogether. 
Stilt, a crutch ; to ha'lt, to limp. 
Stimvart, the eighth part of a Winchester bushel. 
Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old. 
Stock, a plant or root of colewort, cabbage, &c. 
Stockin, a stocking ; tkrowim the stocking, when 
the bride and bvideproom are put into bed, and 
the candle out, the former thiows a slocking at 
random among the company, and the person 
wnom it strikes is the next that will be married. 
tttoiter, to stagger, to stammer. 
S'ooked, made up in sIiocks as com. 
StooT, sounding hollow, strong, and hoarse. 
Slot, an ox. 
Stoup, or atowp, a kind of jug or dish with a 

handle. 
Stoure, dust, more particularly dust in motion. 
Stowlins, by stealth. 
Blown, stolen. 
Stoyte, to stumble, 
S track, did strike. 
Strai, straw : to die a fair Mtrae death, to die in 

bed. -^ 

Straik, did strike. 
Straikit, stroked. 
Strappan, tall and handsome. 
Slraught, straight, to straighten. 
Streek, stretched, tight ; to stretch. 
Striddle, to straddle. 
Stroan, to spout, to piss. 
Studdie, an anvil. 
Btumpie, diminuiive of stump. 

Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind ; to walk stur- 
dily ; hurt", sulleuness. 
Bluff, corn or pulse of any kind. 
Sturt, trouble ; to molest. 
Stttrtin, frightened. 
Sucker, sugar. 
Vud, should. 

Sug/i, the continued rushing noi»e of wind or water. 
i'vthron, southern ; an old name for the English 

nation. 
iSwaird, sward. 
Swall'd, swelled. 
Swank, stately, jolly, 

Swankie, or swanker, a tight strapping young fel- 
low or girl. 
Swap, an exchange ; to barter. 
Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon. 
Swat, did sweat. 
Stoatch, a sample. 
Smats, drink ; good ale. 
Sweaten, sweating. 
Sweer, lazy, averse ; deadsweer, extremely averse. 

9teoor, swore, did swear, 
Hwinge, ;u beat ; to whip. 



S'ttr/. B curve ; an eddying bls^t, or pool ; a knot 
in wood. 

Swirlie, knaggie, full of knot*. 

Sviith, get away. 

Swither, to hesitate in choice ; an irretoiute waver- 
ing in choice. 

Syne, since, ago ; then. 



TACKET^, aitind of nails for driving Into Iha 

heels of shoes. 
Tae, a toe ; three-taed, having three prongs. 
Tairge, a target. 
7ak, to take ; takin, taking. 
Tamtallan, the name of a mountain. 
Tangle, a sea-weed. 
Tnp, the top. 

Tapetleas, heedless, foolish. 
Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance 
Tarrow't, niurmured. 
Tarry-breeks, a sailor. 
Tauld, or tald, told. 

Taupie, a foo)i-h, thoughtless young person. 
Tautcd, or iauiie, matted together ; spoken of hair 

or wool. 
Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be handled ; 

spoken of a horse, cow, &c. 
Teat, a small quantity. 
Teen, to provoke ; provocation. 
Tdding, spreading after the mower. 
Ten-hours bite, a slight feed for the horses while la 

the yoke, in the forenoon. 
Tent, a liekl pulpit ; heed, caution ; to take heed; 

to tend or herd cattle. 
Tentie, heedful, caution. 
Te/itless, heedless. 
Teugh, tough. 
Thack, tha:ch ; thack an' rape, clothics nece» 

saries. 
TViae, these. 

Tkairme, small guts ; flddle-itringi. 
Tluinkit, thanked. 
Theekit, thatched. 
Th'tgithtT, together. 
Thcmsel themselves. 
Thick, intl^Mie, familiar, 
Thii'oeless, cold, dry, spited ; spoken of • peraon'a 

demeanour. 
Tliir, these. 
Thirl, to thrill. 
T'^zri'.ri, thrilled, vibrated. 
Tholfi, to suffer, to endure. 
TVwwe, a thaw ; to thaw, 
TJtowless, slack, laz^. 
Thrang, throng ; a crowd. 
Tkrapplf, throat, windpipe. 
Thrave. twenty-four sheaves or two thocJr« o( coru | 

a considerable number. 
Thniw, to sprain, to twist ; to contradict. 
Thrawin, twisting, &c. 
Thrawii, sprained, twisted, contndicied. 
Thrtap, to muuitain by diut of assertion. 
Threshin, tnrashmg. 
Thretien, thirteen. 
Thristle, thistle. 

Through, to go on with ; to make out. 
Throuthar, pell-meli, confusedly. 
Thud, to make a loud interinilteut ooiM. 
Thurrvpit, thumped. 
Thysel, thyself. 
Tlll't, to it. 
Timmer, timber, 
TiTv;, to lose ; tint, lost. 
Tineler, a tinker. 
Tint the gate, lost the way. 
Tip, a ram. * 

Tippence, twopence, 
Tirl, to make a slight noise ', to uncover. 
THrlin, uncoverin" 
Titker, the other. 
Tittle, to whisper* 
Tittlin, whispering. 
Tocher, marriage portion. 



1€2 



GLOSSARY, 



Tod »foT. 

TocmU, to loUer, like the walk of a child. 

Toddlin, toltering. 

T'jom, empty, to empty. 

Tonp, a ram. 

Toun, a hamlet ; a farm-house. 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet, to blow a horn, 
&c. 

Tow, a rope. 

Towmond, a twelvemonth. 

Towzie, rough, stiasgy. 

Toy, a very okltfasliiori of female head-<h-eBS. 

Toyte, to totter like old age. 

Trai'sm grify'd, transmigrated, metamorphosed. 

Trnsktrie, trash. 

Trews, trowsers, 

Trickle, fiili of tricks. 

Trig, spruce, heat. 

Trimly, excellently. 

Trow, to believe. 

Trowtk, truth, a petty oath. 

Tryste, an appointment ; a fair. 

Ti-ysted, appointeu ; to tryate, to make an appoint- 
ment. 

Try't, tried. 

Tug, raw hide, of which in old times plough-tracee 
were fre(]uenily made. i 

Tci/zie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, to fight. 

Twa, two. 

Twa-three, a few, 

'Twadj-ii would. 

TwaL, twelve ; /wnl-pennie worth, a imall quantity, 
a penny-worth. 

N. B. One p finny English is 12d Scotch. 

Twin, to part. 

Tyke, a dog. 



U. 



UNCO, strange, uncouth ; very, tery great, pro- 

digio.is. 
Uncos, news. 
tVtejin'a, unknown. 
Vnsicker, unsure, unsteady. 
Uns'caith^d, undamaged, unhurt. 
Vnweeting, unwittingly, uukuowingly. 
l'j)o' , -jpon. 
Vrchin, a hedge-hog. 



VAP'RTN, vapouring. 
Vera, very. 

Virl, a ring rotmd a column, &e. 
Vittle, corn of all kinds, food. 

W. 

WA', wall ; wa'a, walls, 

Wa.6/!/er, a weaver. 

Wad, would ; to bet ; a bet, a pledge. 

Hadna, would not. 

Wae, wo ; sorrowful. 

M(ie/u', woful, sorrowful, wailin);. 

WoAmucki: .' or waes-me .' alaa ! the pity. 

Waft, the cross thread that goes from the shuttle 

through the web ; woof. 
Weiir, to lay nut, to expend. 
Wale, choice ; to clionse. 
Wnl'd, chose, chosen 
Wall e, ample, large, jolly ; also an interjection of 

distress. 
Wiime, the bellv. 
Wamefu\ a beily-full. 
WancfiarT^e, iinlucky. 
ii'anreBtfii\ restless. 
Wark, work. 

Wark-lume. atool to work with. 
WaH, or warld, world. 
Warlock, a wizard. 

Warly, worldly, eitger on amassing wtalth. 
Wnrran, a warrant ; to warraol. 
Warat, w«rst. 



Warstl'd, or vmrgl'd, wrestWd, 

Wantrie, prodigahty. 

Wat, wet ; Iwat, 1 wot, I know. 

Water-brose, brose made of meal and wxitf 

simply, without ihi; addition of milk, butter, &e. 
Wattle, a twig, a wand. 
Wanb/e, lo swing, to reel. 
Waug/it, a drauaht. 
WauHt, Ihicke.red as fullers do cloth. 
Waukjife, not apt to sleep. 
Waur, worse ; to worst. 
Wau/^t, worsted. 
Wjmn. or weanie, a child. 
Wearie, or weary ; many a tentry body, many ft 

different person. 
Weason, weasiind. 

Weaving the stocking. See, Stocking, p. 177. 
Wde, little ; wee things, little ones j leeebit, a snuJl 

matter. 
Weel, well ; wee/fare, welfare. 
Weet, rain, wetness. 
Wnrd, fate. 
We'se, we shall. 
Wha, who. 
Whaizle, to wheeze. 
Whnlpit, whelped. 
W/iang, a leaitiev string.; a piece of cheese, bread, 

&c. to give the strappado. 
Wkare, where ; whare'er, wherever. • 

Wheep, to fly nimbly, lo jerk ; penny-uAeep, small 

beer. 
Whose, whose. 
Whatreck, nevertheless. 
Whid, the motion of a hare, running but aiM 

frightened ; a lie. 
Whidden, running as a hare or cony. 
Whigmeleerin, whims, fancies, crotchets. 
Whingin, crying, complaining, fretting. 
Whirligigums, useless ornamenu, trifling appair 

dafes. 
Whissle, a whistle ; to whistle. 
Whisht, silence ; to hold one'i vihisht, to be siieel. 
Whisk, to sweep, to lash. 
Whiskit, lashed. 

Whitter, a hearty draught of liuuor. 
Whu'i-slane, a whin stone. 
Whylen, whiles, somvtiroes. 
Wi\\vit.h. 
Wicht, Wight, powerful, strong ; inventive ; of m 

superior genius. 
Wick, to strilie a stone in an oblique direction ; a 

term in curling. 
Wicker, willow (the smaller sort.) 
Wiel, a small whirlpool 

Wifie, a. diminutive or endearing term for wife. 
W^ilyart, bashful and reserved ; avoiding society 

or appearing awkward in it ; wild, strange, tiaiid. 
Wimple, to meander. 
WimpVt, meandered. 
Wimplin, waving, meandering. 
Win, to win, to winnow. 
Win't, winded, as a bottom of yam. 
Win', wind j wi'i's, winds, 
Winna, will not. 
Winiiock, a window. 
Winsomi:, heany , vaunted, gay, 
Wintb:, a slaggei-iiig motion ; to stagger, to retU 
Winze, an oath. 
Wiss, to wi.sh. 
Withouttcn, without. 
Wizen'd, hide bound, dried, shrunk. 
Woiiner, a wonder ; a contemptuous appellation. 
Wons, dwells. 
Woo', wool. 

Woo, to court, to make love to. 
Woorfje, a rope, more properly one made of withes 

or willows. 
Wooc-r-bab, the garter knotted below the knee with 

a couple of loops. 
Wordy, worthy. 
Worset, worsted. 

Wow, an exclamation of pleasure or wonder. 
Wrncl-, to teaze, to vex. 



Wraith, a spirit, or ghost ; an apparilinn exaeily 
ring iierson, whose nppeorance is Mttd t* 
SMrbMU the parsM's aptnreaeking deittk. 



like a living jierson, 



GLOSSARY. 



163 



\freeth, a drifted heap < 
Wed-mnd, Jistracied. 
W'umbie, a wimble. 
WyU, to bejjiiile. 
Wyliecoal, a flannel vest. 
iVyte, blame ; lo blame. 



YAD, an old mare ; a woni out hone. 

Yt ; Lhis pronoun ia frequently used for thoa 

Yea7-ns, lougg much. 

Ye<uiu»B*i I'K^a Uie m rear co-ctsU. 



Year is used both, for singular and ftural ytUK 

Yearn, earn, an eagle, an oapray. 

Yell, barren, that gives uo milk. 

■vVr-j. to lash, to jerlt. 

Yerki:, 'erked, lashed. 

Yestreen, yesternight. 

Yeti, a gate such ns is usually at the entraacc Intfl 

farm-yarj or field. 
Yill, ale. 
Yird, earth. 
Yokin, yoking ; a bout. 
Yon', beyond. 
Yoursel, yourself 
Yowe, a ewe. 

Yowie, dimuiutire, of Tuva 
YuU, Cfc.l t— . 



CONTENTS. 



BlUGRAPHICAL SKETCH of the Author, 
On ihe Death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe, 
Preface to the first Edition of Burns' Poems, 
published at Kilmarnock, ... 

Dedication of the Second Edition of the Poems 
formerly printed, To the Noblemen and Gen- 
tlemen of the Caledonian Hunt. 

POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 

The Twa Dogs, a Tale, . - . 

Scotch Drink, 

The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer to the 
Scotch Representatives in the House oi Com- 
mons, - ... 

Postscript, . . • - . 

The Holy Fair, . ... 

Death and Dr Hornbook, .... 

The Brigs of Ayr, a Poem inscribed to J. 
B****"**', Esq. Ayr, 

The Ordination, . - . • . 

The Calf. To the Rev. Mr. - 

Address to the Deil, .... 

The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie, 

Poor Malie's Elegy,- .... 

ToJ. S*"', 

A Dream, - - 

The Vision, 

Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly 
Righteous, . - . • . 

Tarn Sampson's Elegy, .... 

The Epitaph, ..... 

Halloween, ..... 

The Auld Farmer's New-Year's Morning Sal- 
utation to his Auld Mare Maggie, 

To a Mouse, on turning up in her nest with 
the Plough, November, 1785, 

A Winter Night, . . - . 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet, 

The Lament, occasioned by the unfortunate 
issue of a Friend's Amour, ... 

Despondency, an Ode, - . , 

Winter, a Dirge, .... 

The Cotter's Saturday Night, 

Man was made to Mourn, a Dirge, - 

A Prayer in the prospect of Death, 

Stanzas on the same occasion, 

Verses left by the Author, in the room where he 
slept, having lain at the House of a Rever- 
end Friend, .... 

The First Psalm, - - - 

A Prayer, under the pressure of violent An- 
guish, ..... 

The first six verses of the Nineteenth Psalm, 

To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one down 
with the Plough, in April, 1786, 

To Ruin, . . . - 

To Miss L , with Seattle's Poems as a 

New Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787, 

Epistle to a Young Friend, 

On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies 

To a Haggis, .... 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 

To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet 
at Church, .... 

Address to Edinburgh, 

Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard 

To the same, ... 

To W. S*—*n, OchUtree, May, 1785, 

Postscript, .... 

£pi«ll« to J. R* *****, •ucloiine Mma Poems 



Page. 



Page. 
John Barleycorn, a Ballad, - - 59 

Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, on Nith- 

Side, 64 

Ode, sacred to the memory of Mrs. ——, of 

, . . . .65 

Elegy on Capt. Matthew Henderson, - iti. 

The Epitaph, - ... 66 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintra, . 67 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn, . 68 

Lines sen', to Sir John Whitefoord, of White. 

foord, Bart, with the foregoing Poem, • 69 

TamO' Shanter, a Tale, - - - lb. 

On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, which 

a fellow had just shot at, - - - 71 

Address to the Shade of Thomson, on crown- 

ing his bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with 

Bays, ..... ib. 

Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder, • ib. 

On a Noisy Polemic, - • • ib. 

On Wee Johnie, . . - - ib. 

For the Author's Father, - - 72 

ForR. A. Esq. . - . - ib. 

ForG.H. Esq. - . . - ib. 

A Bard's Epitaph . • - ib. 

On the late Capiam Grose's Peregrinations 

through Scotland, collecting the Antiquities 

of thai Kingdom, .... |b. 

To Miss Cruikshanks, a very young Lady. 

Written on the blank leaf of a Book, pre- 
sented to her by the Author, . .73 
On reading in a Newspaper the Death of John 

M'Leod, Esq. Brother to a young Lady, a 

particular Friend of the Author's, . - 73 

The Humble Petition of Bruar Water to the 

Noble Duke of Athloe, • • - ib. 

On scaring some Water-Fowl in Loch-Turit, 74 

Written with a Pencil over the Chimney-piece, 

in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmor'e, Tay. 

mouth, ..... 75 

Written with a Pencil, standing by the Fall ol 

Fyers, near Loch-Ness, . - - lb. 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, Bornio 

peculiar Circumstances of Family Distress, ib. 
The Whistle, a Ballad, ... 76 

Second Epistle to Davie, ... 77 

Lines on an interview with Lord Daer, • 78 

On the Death of a Lap-Dog, named Echo, • 79 

Inscription to the Memory of Fergusson, • 80 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq. - - - ib. 

Fragment, inscribed to the Right Honourable 

C.J. Fox, - ... 81 

To Dr. Blacklock, - - - - ib. 

Prologue, spoken at the Theatre Ellisland, on 

New-Year's-Day Evening, - 82 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo, ib. 
The Rights of Woman, • - • 83 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her 

Benefit Night, Dec. 4, 1795, at the Theatre, 

Dumfries, ----- ib» 
Verses to a young Lady, with a present of 

Songs, ..... 63 

Lines written on a blank leaf of a copy of his 

Poems presented to a young Lady, - 101 

Copy of a Poetical Address to Mr. William 

Tytler, 113 

Caledonia, ... - . ib. 

Poem written to a Gentleman who had sent 

him a Newspaper, and offered to continue it 

free of expense, • - • .lb. 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry, - • - 114 

Sketch— New Year's Day, . . - 115 

Extempore, on the laU Mr. William Smellie, 'b 



166 



CONTENTS, 



Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Independ 



Page. 



Sonnet, on the Death of Robert Riddel, Esq 
Miinody on a Lady famed tor her caprice, 
The Epitaph, ... 

Answer to a mandate sent by the Surveyor of 

the Windows, Carriages, &c. 

Impromptu, on Mrs. 's Birth-day, 

To a young Lady, Miss lessy , Dumfries ; 

with Boolvs which the Bard presented her 
Sonnet, written on the 25lh of January, 1793, 

the Birth-day of the Author, on hearing j 

Thrush sing iu a morning walk, 
Exteinjiore, to Mr. S"'e, on refusing to dine 

with him, ..... 
To Mr. S**e, with a present of a dozen of por 



ter. 



Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell, collector of 

Excise, Diimtries, 1796, 
Sent to a gentleman whom he had offended, 
Voern on Life, addressed to Col. De feysteri 

Dumfries, ..... 119 
Adiliess to the Tooth-ach, - - - io. 

To Roljerl Graham, Esq. of Fintry, on receiv 

iri= a favour, .... 120 

Epilapli on a Friend, - - • - 121 

A Grace before Dinner, • - - lb. 

On Sen.sibilily. Addressed to Mrs. Dunlop, 

ofDunlop, .... 

A Verse. When Death's dark stream I ferry 

o'er. .... 

Verses written at Selkirk, 
Liberty, a Frasmenl, 
Elegy on the death of Robert Ruisseaux, • ih. 

The loyal Natives' Verses, 
Burns — Extempore, - • - • ib. 

To J. Lapraik, 124 

To the Rev. Jolm M'Math, enclosing a copy 

of Holy Willie's Ji raver, which he had re 

quested, . '._ . . . lb. 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Mauchlind, recom 

mendins a Boy, .... 125 

To Mr. M'Adam, of Craieen-Gillan, • 126 

To (;apt. Riddel, Glenriddel, . - lb. 

To Terraughty, on his Birib-day, - - ib. 

To a Lady, with a present of a pair of d 

ing-slasscs, ... 

The'Vowels, aTale, .... 127 
Sketch, . . • . - ib. 

Scots 1 rologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit, ib. 
ExleniporHneous Etfusion on being appointed 

to the Excise, - • • - 12S 

On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord G. 
On the same, ... jb. 

On the same, • . . . ib. 

To the same on the Author being threatened 

with his resentment, - -lb. 

The Dean of Faculty, - - • ib. 

Extempore in the Court of Session, - • ih. 

Verses to J. Ranken, - • • ib. 

On hearing that there was falsehood in the Rev 

Dr. B 's very looks. 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire 

Elegy on the Year 17S8, a Sketch, - . ib. 

Verses written under the Portrait of Fergus 

son, the Poet. 
The Guidwife of Wauchope house to Robert Burns, 138 
The Answer, ... 

The Kirk's Alarm, A Satire, ... 14} 
The twa Herds, .... 145 

Epistle from a Taylor to Robert Bums, • 146 

The Answer, . . . • • ib. 

Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock, on the 

publication of his Essays ... 147 

Letter to J— 8 T 1 GJ nc r, . ib. 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair . 148 
The Jolly Beggars, a Cantata. . « 149 



SONGS, 



A. 

Adlen ! B heart-wanti, fond adieti I 
A'lown winding Nith I did wander, 
Ms fend kict *i»d Uiaa w stvar. 



Again rejoicing nature sees, • • 69 

A Highland lad my loie was bom, - . 150 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, . . 137 

Amang the trees where humming hues, . ib. 

An O, for ane and twenty, Tam ! - - 0)8 

Ance mairl hail thee, thou gloomy December I lit) 

Anna, thy charms my bosom file, - . j;} 

A rose-bud by my early walk, - - 104 

As 1 cam in by our gate-end, ... I4y 

As I stood by yon roofless tower, - . 112 

As I was a-wanderiiig ae morning in spring, 138 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, lo2 



Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, • - 61 

Behold the ho.>r, the boat arrive, - • £1 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, - 131 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, - . 104 

Blithe hae 1 been on yon hill, ... $8 

Bonnie lassie will ye go, ... 103 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, . io8 

But lately seen in gladsome green, • - 9t> 

By Allan sir-am 1 chanced to rove, • . SO 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, . 62 



Ca' the yowes to the knowes, ... 94 

Canst thou leave nje thus, my Katy ? . 67 

Clarinda, misliessof my soul, . . 106 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, - -91 

Comin thro' the rye, poor body, . . 183 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' malr, • 97 

Could aught of song declare my paiu, . Ml 



Deluded swain, the pleasure, • 
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 
Duncan Gray came here to woo, 



Fair the face of orient day. 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 

yesKKs, .... 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows, 
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped. 
First when Maggie was my care, 
Flow gently, sweet Alton, among thy green 

braes, .... 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
From thee, Eliza, I must go, - 

G. 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night. 
Go fetch tome a pint o' wine. . 
Green grows the rashes 01. 



Had T a cave on some wild distant shore. 
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here's a bottle and tin honest friend, 
Here's a health to ane 1 lo"e dear. 
Here's a health to them that's awa, . 
Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, . 
How can my poor heart he glad, 
How cruel are the parents, 
How long and dreary is the night, 
How pleasant the banks of the clear winding 
Devon, . . . . , 

Huibaod, husbaod, r«a*e ymtr strife. 



218 



m 

10? 



CONTENTS. 



167 



! am a bard of no regard, ... 151 

I am a fiddler to my trade, . • - ib. 

I am a son cf Mars, - - - - 149 

I docoiifeKg thou art so fair, - - - 131 

I dream'd I lay where tlowers were springing, 130 

f gaed a waefu' gale yestreen ... 106 

I hae a wife 0' my ain, - . . . 79 
t'U avca' in by yon town, - . .134 

I'll ki'ss thee yet, yet, - - - - 1^5 

III simmer when the hay wasmawn, - - 108 

I once was a maid tho' I cannot tell when, 149 

ta there for honest poverty, - - - 9S 

It was upon a Lammas night, ... 60 

It was the charming month of May, • • S6 



•Jpckey's ta'en the parting kiss, - • 120 

John Anderson my jo, John, ... 106 



Ceil ye ought o' Captain Grtwe ? - . 

L. 

dansie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang 
glen, ..... 

Let me rike up to delight that tear, 
Let not woman e'er complain. 
Lone, long the night, - . . 

Loud biaw the frosty bi-eezes, 
Louis, what reck I by thee, 



M. 



Mark yonder pomp of costly (aahloa, 

Musing on the roaring ocean, - 

My bonny lass, I work in brass, 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick 'oor- 

der O, 
My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, - 
My heart's in the Highland's, my heart is not 

here, .... 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 
My lady's gown there's gair* upon't, 
My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 



N. 



Nae Gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 
Nn ch4nchman am I for to rail and to write, - 
Now bank and brae are claitli'd in green 
Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, 
Koft' iiaiure hangs her mantle green. 
Now r.jsy May comes in wi' flowers. 
Now spring has cinth'd llie groves in green. 
Now wesiin winds and slaughtering guii>. 



O ay my wife she dang me, 

boniiie was yen rosy brier, 

() cam ye here the fight to shun. 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

O gin mv love were yon red rose, 

O guid ale comes, and gnid ale goes, 

O how Crtn I be blithe and glad, 

Oh, open the door, some intytosbow, 

t)ii, Wert thou in the canld blast, 

O ken ye wha Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 

O isesie, an thou sieepin yet ,' 

6 i«av« p«T«ia., y* M«o«biiu»b«iiec^ . 



O leeze me on my spinning wheel, 

O Logan, sweetly didst Uiou glide, 

O lovely I oily Stewart, 

O luve will venture in, where it daur na weel 

be seen, .... 

iVJary, at thy window be, 
O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
O nieikie thinks my luve o' my beauty, 
mirk, mirk is the midnight hour, 
O my luve's like a red, red rose, 
On a bank of flowers, onesumujer's day. 
On Cessiiock banks there lives a lass, 
One night as I did wajider, 
O, once 1 lov'd a bonny lass, 
I hilly, happy be the'day, 
O poortith caiild, and restless love, 
O raging fortune's withering blast, 
saw ye bonnie Lesley, 
O saw ye my dear, my '. hr:ly f 
I) stay, sweet warbling woud-lark, stay, 
O tell na me 0' wind and rain, 
O, this is no mv ain lassie, 
O Tibbie, I hae seen the .lay. 
Out over the Forth I look to the north, 
O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 
O, were I on I arnasMis" hill ! 
O wha is she thai lo'es me, 
O wha my banie-clouts will boy ? 
O Whisiie. and I'll come to vou. my lad, 
O, Willie brew'd a peck 0' mntit, 
O will thou go wi' me. ?weet Tibbie Dunbar 
O why the deuce should I repine, 



P. 



(1* 



t9 
100 
lOJ 
13i 
113 
\U 
11& 
JSl 

u- 
U* 



Powers celestial, whose protection. 



Raving winds around her blowing, 
Hobiu shure iiiliairst, 



Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 

Scots wha ha wi' Wallace bled, 

See the smoking bowl before us. 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

She is a winsome wee thing 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

S!r Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 

Sleep'sl thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature, 

Slow spreaiis the gloom my soul desires. 

Stay my charmei-, can you leave me? 

Streams that glide in orient plains, • 

Sweet la's the eve ou Cruigie-burn, • 



The bairns gat out wi* an unco shout. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The deil cam fiddling tho' the town, - 

The gloomy iii^lit is gath'ring fa;t. 

The heatiier was blooming, the meadows were 



azy 



nist hangs from the brow of the hill, 
■ laiis ()' Inverness, . 
birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 



Phe smiling sjiring comes iii*leioicing, . 

The Thames flows proudly to ili>- sea, 

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes 

at last, - ' - 
Their groves 0' s-^'eel mynle lei foreign lands 

reckon, .... 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen. 
There 8 a youth in thin eiiy, it were a gieol 

pity. 



If I 

108 



168 



CONTENTS. 



There's braw, braw lads On Yarrow braes 
There was a bonnie iasa, and aboanie, bonaU 



There was a lad was born at Kyle, 

There was a lass and she was fair. 

There were five carlias in the South, 

Thickest night o'erhana my dwelling ! - 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou lingering star, with less' ning ray - 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains. 

True heatred was he, the sad swain of Yarrow, 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Twas even, the dewy fields were green, 

1 Was na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin. 



Vf In the moming'ii no tor me, 
W. 



W»# is my heart and the tear's In my e'e, 
^ «« Willie Orray. and his letuhen wallet ; 
^ a« is this at ray bower iloor ? • • 



Page. 



Whit can a young lassie, what shall a young 
lassie, ...... 

When first I came to Stewart Syle, 

When Guilford good our pilot stood, • 

When o'er the hill the eastern star. 

When January winds were blawing cauld 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn._ 

Where are the joys I hae met in the mornint;. 

Where braving angry winter's storms, 

Where Cartrins rowin to the sea. 

While larks, with little wing. 

Why, why tell thy lover. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary. 

Willie Wastledwalt on Tweed, - 

Wilt thou be ray dearie? 



Ye banks and braes, and streams around, 
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 
Ye gallants bright I red you right, • 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, • _ • 

Yon wand 'ring rill, that marks the hill, 
Yon wild mossy mountains. 
Young Jockey was the blithest lad. 
Young Peggy blooms our bonniest last, 
You're welcome to Dcs)>oti, Dumouricr. 



Page, 

107 
137 

60 

bi 
Ui 

87 

92 
104 
III 

89 
102 

S4 
1U9 



THE LIFE 

OF 

ROBERT BURNS, 

WITH 

HIS GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE; 

ALSO 

CRITICISM OJ^- HIS WRITIJVGS 

AND 
OBSERVATIONS ON THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 

BY DH. CURRZC 



Z>H. CURRIIS'S DSDZCATION. 



TO 



OF THE B.OTAL NAVY. 



WHEN yoa were stationed on our coast nboul] 

twelve years ago, you first recommended to my par- 
ticular notice the poems of the Ayrshire ploughman, 
whose works, published for the benefit of his widow 
and children, I now present to you. In a distant re- I 
gionofthe world, whither the service of your country 
has carried you, you will, [know, receive with kind- j 
ness this proof of my regard ; not perhaps without 
lome surprise on finding that I have been engaged in 
editing these volumes, nor without some curiosity to 
know how I was qualified for such an undertaking. 
These points I will briefly explain. 

Having occasion to make an excursion to the county 
of Dumfries, in the summer of 1782, I had there an op- 
portunity of seeing and conversing with Burns. It has 
been my fortune to know some men of high reputation 
jn literature, as well as in public life ; but never to 
meetany one who, in the course of a single interview, 
communicated tome so strong an impression of the 
force and versatility of his talents. After this I read 
tht i^«nae then published with greater interest and at- 
le.ifcV*a, and with a full conviction that, extraordinary 
as t><y are, they afford but i-n inadequate proof of the 
poWtTB of their unfortunate author. 

Fouryears afterwards, Bums terminated his career. 
Among those whom the charms of his genius had at- 
tached to him, was one with whom I have been bound 
in the ties of friendship from early hie — Mr. John 
Syme of Ryedale. This gentleman, after the death of 
BurnR, promoted with the utmost zeal a subscription 
for the support of the widow and children, to which 
their relief from immediate distress is to be ascribed ; 
and in conjunction with other friends of this virtuous 
and destiiutefamily projected the publications of these 
volumes for their benefit, by which the return of want 
might be prevented or prolonged. 

To this last undertaking an editor and biographer 
was wanting, and Mr. Syme's modesty opposed a bar- 
rier to his assumi^g an office, for which he was in other 
respects peculiarly qualified. On this subject he con- 
sulted me ! and with the hope of surmounting his ob- 
jections, I offered him my assistance, but in vain. En- 
deavours were used to procure an editor in other quar- 
ters but without effect. 'J'he task was beset with con- 
Biderable difficulties, and men of established reputation 
naturally declined an undet taking to the performance 
of which, it was scarcely to be hoped that general ap- 
probation could be obtained by an exertion of judg- 
caent or temper 

To such an office, my place of residence, my accus- 
lomed studies, and my occupations, were certainly 
little suited : but the partiality of Mr. Syme thought 
me in other respects not unqualified ; and his solicita- 
tions, joined to those of our excellent friend and rela- 
tion. Mrs. Dunlop, and of other friends of the family 
of the poet, I have not been able to resist. Toremove 
difficulties which would otherwise have been insur- 



mountable, Mr. Syme and Mr. Gilbert Burns marie ■ 
journey to Liverpool, where mey explaine'V %(.d '.r- 
rangedthe manuscripts, and selected such as eeeTifd 
worliiy of the press. From this visit 1 derived a de- 
gree of pleasure which has compensated much of my la- 
bour. 1 had the iatisfaction oV renewing my jersonai 
intercourse with a much valued friend, and of forminc 
an acquaintance with a man, ciostly allied to Burns in 
talents as well as in blood, in whose future fo'-tunea 
the friends of virtue will not, I trust, be uninterested. 

The publication of these volumes has been delayed 
by obstacles which these getititmcn could neither re- 
move nor foresee, and which it would be ledions to 
enumerate. At length the task is finished. If the part 
which 1 have taken shall serve the interest of the fami- 
ly, and receive the approbation of good men, 1 shall 
have my recompense. The errors into which 1 have 
fallen are not, I hope, very important, and they will 
be easily accounted for by those wl o know the circum- 
stances under which this undertaking has been per- 
formed. Generous minds will receive the poeUiumous 
works of Burns with candour, and even partiali'y, as 
the remains of an untbrtunate man of genius, ])i'ijlish- 
ed for the benefit of his family— as the stay of the will- 
ow and the hope of the fatherless. 

To secure the suffrages of such minds, all topics are 
omitted in the writings, and avoided in the life of Burns, 
that havea tendency to awaken the aiiimo'lty of party. 
In p.trusing the following volumes no ofi'eiicc will be 
received, except by those to whom e'^en the natural 
erect aspect of genius is offensive ; characters thaf will 
scarcely be found among those who are educated to 
the profession of arms. Such men do not court situa- 
tions of danger, or tread in tiie paths of glory. They 
will not be found in your sevice, which, in our owii 
days, emulates on another element the superior fame 
of the Macedonian plialaux. or of the Roman legion, 
and which has, lately made the shores of Eurojje aud 
Africa resound with 'the shouts oi victory, from 'i'exel 
to theTagus, and from the Tagus to the Nile ! 

The works of Burns will be received favourably by 
one who stands in the foremost rank pI this noble fer- 
vice, and who deserves his station. On the land or 
on the sea, 1 know no man more capable of judaing i4 
the character or of the writings of this original genius. 
Homer, and Shakspeare, and Ossian, cannot alu-ays 
occupy your leisure. These volumes may somtiim'es 
engage your attention, while the steadv bree/es uf the 
tropic swell your sails, and in another qiiartei of the 
earth charm you with the strains of nature, or a wis ke 
in your memory the scenes of your earlv duvs. Suffei 
m^. to hope that they may sometimes' rec'all to yc-jr 
mind the friend who addresses you, and who bids yoa 
— most affectionately — adieu 1 

J. CDHRIE, 

Liverpool, l»t Mfou 



PREFATORir REMARKS 

TO THE LIFE 



OP 



ROBERT BURNS. 



THOUGH (he dialect in which many of the hap- 
riiibt efFuKioris of Robert Burns are composed be pecu- 
iioir to Scotland, yet his reputation has extended itself 
lieyond the limits of that country, and his poetry has 
been admired as the offspring of original genius, by 
persons of taste in every part of the sister inlands. The 
interest excited hy his early death, and the distress of 
his infant family, have been felt in a remarkable man- 
ner wherever his writings have been itnovvn : and 
these posthumous volumes, which give to the world his 
works complete, and which, it is hoped, may raise his 
widow and children from penury, are printed and pub- 
iislied in England, it seems proper, therefore, to write 
the memoirs of his life, not with the view of their being 
read by Scotchmen only, but also by natives of England, 
and of other countries where the English language is 
ipjkea or understood. 

Robert Burns was, in reality, what he has been rep- 
resented to be, a Scottish peasant. To render the in- 
cidents of his humble story generally intelligible, it 
«e-!m» therefore, advisable to prefix some observations 
ou the character and situation of the order to which 
he belonged — a class of men distinguished by many pe- 
culiarities : by this means we shall form a more cor- 
rect notion of the advantages with which he started, 
and of the obstacles which he surmounted. A few ob- 
servations on the Scottish peasantry will not. perhaps, 
be found unworthy of attention in other respects ; and 
the subject is, in a great measure, new. Scotland has 
produced persons of high distinction in every branch 
of philosophy and literature ; and her history, while a 
>e(>arHte and independent nation, has been success- 
fully explored. But the present character of the people 
was not then formed ; the nation then presented fea- 
tures similar to those which the feudal system of the 
catholic rehgion had diffused over Europe, modified, 
indeed, by the peculiar nature of her territory and cli- 
mate. The Reformation, by which such important 
changes were produced on the national character, was 
•peedily followed by the accession of the Scottish 
monarchs to the English throne ; and the period which 
elapsed from that accession to the Union, has been 
rendered memorable, chiefly, by those bloody convul- 
sions in which both divisions of the island were in- 
volved, and which, in a considerable degree, concealed 
from the eye of the historian the domestic history of the 
people, and the gradual variations in their condition 
and manners. Since the Union, Scotland, though the 
•eat of two unsuccessful attempts to restore the House 
of Stuart to the 'hrone, has enjoyed a comparative 
irinquility ; and it is since this period that the present 
el>aracterof her peasantry has been in agreat measure 
fi-rrred, though the political causes affecting it are to 
oe traced to the previous acts of her separate legisla- 
ture. 

A slight acquaintance with the peasanty of Scotland 
will serve to convince an unprejudiced observer, that 
they possess a degree of intelligence not generally 
found among the same class of men in the other coun- 
tries of £:irope. In the very humblest condition of the 
9e:.iiti«h p«4sauii, every aut caia mad, «ad most par- 



sons are more or less skilled in writing and arithmetic ; 

and, under the disguise of their uncouth appcaiunce, 
and of their peculiar manners and dialect, a stranger 
will discover that they possess a curiosity, and have 
obtained a degree of information, corresponding to 
these acquirements. 

These advantages they owe to the legal provision 
made by the parliament of Scotland in 1646, lor the 
establishment of a school in every parish throughout 
the kingdom, for the express purpose of educating the 
poor : a law which may challenge comparison with 
any act of legislation to be found in the records of his- 
tory, whether we consider the wisdom of the ends iu 
view, the simplicity of the means employed, or the pro- 
visions made to render these means etl'ectual to their 
purpose. This excellent statute was repealed on the 
accession of Charles II. in 1660, together with all the 
other laws passed during the commonwealth, as not 
being sanctioned by the royal assent. It slept during the 
reigns of Charles and James, but was re-enacted, pre- 
cisely in the same terms, by the Scottish parliament 
after the revolution, in 1696 ; and this is the last pro- 
vision on the subject. Its effects on the national cha- 
racter may be considered to have commenced about 
the period of the Union ; and doubtless it co-operated 
with the peace and security arising from that happy 
event, in producing the extraordinary change in favour 
of industry and good morals, which the character of 
the common people of Scotland has since undergone.* 



The church establishment of Scotland happily coin- 
cides with the institutions just mentioned, which may 
be called its school establishment. The clergymen 
being every where resident in his particular parish, 
becomes the natural patron and superintendent of the 
parish school, and is enabled in various ways to pro- 
mote the comfort of the teacher, and the proficiency ol 
the scholars. The teacher himself is olien a candidate 
for holy orders, who, during the long course of study 
and probation required in the Scottish church, renders 
the time which can be spared from his professional 
studies, useful to others as well as to himself, by as- 
suming the respectable character of a schoolmaster. It 
is common for the established schools, even in the 
country parishes of Scotland, to enjoy the means of 
classical instruction ; and many of the farmers, and 
some even of the cottagers, submit to much privation, 
that they may obtain for one of their sons at least, the 
precarious advantage of a learned education. The 
difficulty to be surmounted arises, indeed, not from 
the expense cf instructing their children, but from the 
charge of supporting them. In the country parish 
schools, the English language, writing, and accounts, 
are generally taught at the rate of six shillings, and 
Latin at the rate of ten or twelve shillings per auiiuiu. 
In the towns the prices are somewhat higher. 

It vould be improper in this place to inquire minutely 
into the degree of instruction received in these seiui- 



Appenf'iz, N». I. Note. A. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



a«rie«, or lo ailempt any precise estimate of ita effects, 
*iiher oil the individuals who are llie suljecls ot liiis 
iiMlrucion, or on the community to which they belong. 
That it 18 on the whole fa>ourable to industry and 
morals, though doubtless with some individual excep- 
tions, seenis to be proved by the most striking and de- 
cisive appearance ; and it is equally clear, that it is the 
cause of that sijitit of eniigraiion and of adventure so 
prevalent among the Scotch. Knowledge has, by Lord 
Verulam, been denominated power ; by others it lias 
with less propriety been deiiomiiiaied virtue or happi- 
ness : we may with confidence consider it as motion. 
A human being, in proportion as he is informed, has 
HIS wishes enlarged, as well as the means of gratifying 
those wishes. He may be considered as taking within 
the sphere of his vision a large portion of the globe on 
which we tread, and discovering advantage at a great- 
er distance on its surface. His desires or ambition, 
once excited, are stimulated by his imagination ; and 
ili-i.i.ii and Uncertain objects, giving freer scope to the 
npi.Kiiion of this faculty, olfen acquire, in the mind of 
the y.juthful adventurer, an attraction from their very 
distance and uncertainty. If, tlierefore, agreater de- 
gree of instruction be given to the peasantry of a coun- 
try comparatively poor, in the neighbourhood of other 
countries rich in natural and acquired advantages ; 
and if the barriers be removed that kept them sepa- 
rate, emigration from the former to tl:e latter will take 
place to a certain extent, by laws nearly as uniform as 
those by which heat diffuses itself among surrounding 
boilies, or water finds its level when left lo its natural 
course. By the articles of the Union, the barrier was 
t>rokefi down which divided the two British nations, 
and knowledge and poverty poured the atlventurous 
nntivesof the north over the fertile plains of England ; 
and more especially, over the colonies which she had 
nettled in the east and west. The stream o population 
continues to flow from the north to the south ; for the 
causes tha'. originally impelled it continue to operate ; 
and the richer country is constantly invigorated by the 
accession of an informed and hardy race of men, edu- 
cated in poverty, and prejjared for hardship and dan- 
ger ; patient of labour, and prodigal of life.' 

The preachers of "he Reformation in Scotland were 
disciples of Calvin, and brought with them the temper 
fcs Well as the tenets of that celebrated lieresiarch. 
The presbyleriaii form of worship and of church gov- 
ernment was endeared to the people, from its being 
tttaohshed by themselves. It was endeared to them, 
alKO, by the struggle it had to maintain with the Cath- 
olic and the Irotestant episcopal churches : over both 
of wliich, altera hundied years of fierce and sometimes 
bloody contention, it finally triumphed, rec"iving the 
eouiiteiiance of government, and the sanction of law. 
During this long perioit of contention and suffering, the 
temper of the [leople became more and more obstinate 
Rud bigoted : and the nation received that deep tinge 
of fanaticism which coloured their public transactions, 
■8 well as their piivate ?irtues, in our own times. 
When the public schools were established, the instruc- 
tion communicated in them partook of the religious 
character of the people. The Catechism of the 
Westminster Divines was the universal school-book, 
and was put into the hands of the young peasa-il as 
S'lon as he had acquired a knowledge of his alphabet ; 
and his first exercise in the art of reading introduced 
him to the moct mysterious doctrines of the Christian 
faith. This practice is continued in our own times. 
Al'ie' the Assembly's Catech:?'", 'ho Proverbs of Solo- 
mon, and the New and Old Testament, follow in regu- 
lar succession ; and the scholar departs, gifted with 
the knowledge of the sacred writings, and receiving 
their doctrines according to '.he interpretation of the 
Westminster Conlessioii of Faith. Thus, with the 
instruction of infancy in the schools of Scotland are 
blended the dogmas of the national chinch ; and hence 
the first and most constant exercise of fngenuity among 
the peasantry of Scotland is displayed in religious dis- 
putation. With a strong attachment to the national 
creed, is conjoined a bigoted preference to certain forms 
of worship ; the source of which would be often allo- 
fSllMr obccure, if we did not recollect that the cei e- 

' 8e« Appaodix, N*. 1. Note U. 



monies of the .Scottish Church wers framea lu .direct 



The eccentrichies of conduct, an;J mngniarities o> 
opinion and manneri'; which characterized the Kiig- 
lish sectaries in the last century, afiunled a subject for 
the comic in'ise of Butler, whose jiicturea lose their 
interest, since their archetypes are lost. Some of the 
peculiarities common among the more rigid disciplei 
of Calvinism in Scotland, in the present times, have 
given scope to the ridicule of Burns, whose hiimuur is 
equal to Butler's, and whose drawings from living 
manners are singularly expressive and exact. Un- 
fortunately the correctness of his taste did not always 
correspond with the strength of his genius ; and hence 
some of the most exquisite of his comic production* 
are rendered unfit for the light.* 

The information and the Religions education of the 
peasantry of Scotland, piomote sedateness of conduct, 
and habits of thouglit and reflection. These good 
qualities are not counteracted, by the establishment oi 
poor laws, which while they reflect credit on I'ne : e- 
nevolence, detract from the wisdom of the English 
legislature. To make a legal provision for tlieineviia- 
ble distresses of the poor, who by age or disease are 
rendered incapable of labour, may indeed seem an in- 
dispensable duty of society ; and if, in the execution of 
apian for this purpose, a distinction could be intro- 
duced, so as to exclude from its benefits those whose 
•ufferings are produced by idleness or profligacy, such 
an institution would perhaps be as rational as humane. 
But to lay a general tax on property for the support oi 
poveVty, from whatever cause proceeding, is a mea- 
sure full of danger. It must operate in a considerable 
degree as an incitement lo idleness, and a discourage- 
ment to industry. It lakes away from vice and indo- 
lence the prospect of their most dreaded conseq'.iencea. 
and from virtue and industry their peculiar sanc- 
tions. In many cases it must render the rise in the 
price of labour, not a blessing but a curse to the la- 
bourer ; who, if there be an excess in what he earm 
beyond his immediate necessities, may be expected to 
devote this excess to his present gratification ; trust- 
ing to the provision made by law for his own and liik 
family's support, should disease suspend, or death 
terminate his labours. Happily, in Scotland, the same 
li-gislature which established a system of ii'siruciion 
for the poor, resisted the introduction of a legal pro- 
vision for the support of poverty ; the estabrmhment cl 
the first, and the rejection of the last, were equally la- 
vourable to industry and good morals ; and hence it 
will not appear surprising, if the Scottish peasantry 
have a more than usual share of prudence and re- 
flection, if they approach nearer than persons ol their 
order usually do, to the definition of a man, tliat of " a 
being that looks before and after." 'i'hese observa 
lions must indeed be taken with many excepllons : the 
favourable operation of the causes just mentioned in 
counteracted by others of an opposite tendency ; and 
the subject if fully examined, would lead to discussions 
of great extent. 

When the Reformation was established in Scotland 
instrumental music was banished from the churches, 
as savouring too much of" profane minstrelsy." In- 
stead of being regulated l.y an instrument, the voicii 
of the congregation ere led and directed by a person 
under the name of preceptor ; and the people are all 
expected to join in the tune which he chooses for the 
psalm which is to be sung. Church-innsic is tlierefcrc 
a part of 'he education of the iieaeantry of Scotland, 
in which they are usually instructed in the long winter 
nights by the parish sciioilmaster, who ia ge;ierally 
the preceptor, or by itinerant teachers more or less 
celebrated for their powers of voice. This 'jranch ot 
eJucalinn had, in the last reigii fallen into some neg- 
lect, but was revived about thirty or foriy years ago, 
when the music itself was reformed and improved. 
The Scottish system of psalmody is, however, radical- 

• Holy Willie'i Prayer; Rob the Rhymer's W«J- 
c.Tie i« his Bastard Child : Epistie (o J. UdwOie i ibe 
I liuly Tukie iie. 



PRLFATOllY REiMVRKS. 



.y oad. De»tUiite of tas'o or harmony, it forms a a perfect knowledge of the humRu heart, and breathe a 
»i<i*iug coiilrasl with thn de.icacy uiul (jaLhoa uf the i spirit of alU'Ction, tiud soineiimes of delicate and ro- 
fir.iiaiie airs. Uiirpoet, it will !)e luund, was lau^lit ! maiitic tenderness, not to be surpassed in modern 
church-music, in which, ho*ever, he made little pro- I i)oetiy, and wliich the more poUshed strains of anticjui- 
ficiency. I ly have seldom possessed. 



That dancing should also be very generally a part 
of the education of the Scottish peasantry, will sur- 
prise those who have only seen this dtsci ipticn of net; ! 
and still more those wlio reflect on the riiiid spirit of 
Gajvaii'.sm with which iheu-itionis so deeply affected, 
and to which this recreation is so strongly abhorrent. 
Tlie winter is also the season when lliey acquiie dan- 
cing, and indeed almost all the other instruttion. 
They are taught to dance by jersons generally ol their 
own number, inany of wlnnn wjrlt at daily labour 
during the summer months. The school is usually a 
barn, and the arena for the performers is generally a 
clay rtoor. The dome is lighted by candles stuck in 
or.e end of a cloven stick, the other end of which is 
thrust into the wall. Reels, strathspeys, country- 
dances, and hornpipes, are here practised. The jig 
ao much in favour among the Knglish peasantry, has 
no place among them. The attachment of the people 
of Scotland of every rank, and particularly of the 
peasantry, to this amusement, is very great. After 
the labours of the day are over, young men and wo- 
men walk many miles, in the cold and dreary nights of 
winter, to these country dancing-schools ; and the in- 
stant that the violin sounds a Scottish air, fatigue seems 
to vanish, the toil-bent rusiic becomes erect, his fea- 
tures brighten with sympathy ; every nerve seems to 
thrill with sensation, and every artery to vibrate with 
life These rustic performers are indeed less to be 
admired for grace, than for agility and animation, and 
their accurate observance of time. Their modes of 
dancing, as well as their tunes, are common to every 
rank in Scotland, and are now generally known. In 
our own day they have penetrated into England, and 
hive established themselves even in the circle of royal- 
ty. In another generaiiou they will be naturalized in 
every part of the island. 

The prevalence of this taste, or rather passion for 
danci-ig, among a people so deeply tinctured with the 
spirit aud doctrines of Calvin, is one of those contra- 
dictions which the philosophic observer so ol'ten finds 
in national character and manners. It is probably to 
u« ascribed to the Scottish music, which ihrouglioul 
all its varieties, is so full of sensibility ; and which, in 
its livelier strains, awakes those vivid emotions that 
find iu dancing their natural solace and rehef. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland over the spir- 
it of the established religion, has not, however, been 
obtained without long continued and obstinate strug- 
gles. 'I'he numerous sectaries who dissenl frojn the 
esiablishment on account of the relaxation which they 
perceive, or think they perceive, in the church, from 
her original doctrines and diciijline, universally con- 
demn the practice of dancing, and the schools where it 
is taught ; and the more elderiy and serious part of the 
people, of every persuasion, tolerate rather than ap- 
prove these meetings of the young of both sexes, where 
dancing is practised to their spirit-stirring music, 
where care is dispelled, toil is forgotten, and prudence 
itself is sometimes lulled to sleep. 

The Reformation, which proved fatal to the rise of 
the other line arts in Scotland, probably impeded, but 
could not obstruct the progress of itj music : a cir- 
cumstance that will convince the imiiartial inquirer, 
that this music not only existed previously to that aira, 
but had taken a firm hold of the nation ; thus affording 
a proof of Its antiquity, stronger than any produced by 
the researches of our antiquaries. 

The impression which the Scottish tr.usic has made 
on the people, is deepened by its union with the nation- 
al songs, of which various collections of unequal 
merit are before the public. These songs, like those 
of other nations, are many of them humorous ; but 
ihey chiefiy treat of love, war, and drinking. Love U 
the subject of the greater portion. Without display- 
tug thfi highar powers ^f thue iraagiuaiiuu, (hey axhibit 



The origin of this amatory character in the rustic 
muse of Scotland, or of the greater number of these 
love songs tlienjselves, it woultl be difficult to trace; 
:hey have accumulated in the silent lai'se of time, and 
it is now perhaps impossible to give an arrangement of 
them in the order of liieir date, valuable as such a 
record of taste and manners would be. Their present 
influence on the character of the nation is, however, 
great and striking. To them we must attribute, in a 
great measure, the romantic passion which so ot'eii 
characterizes the attachments of the humblest of liie 
people of Scotland to a degree, that if we mistake not, 
IS seldom found in the same rank of society in otlip' 
countries. The pictures of love and happiness exhibited 
in their rural songs, are early impressed on the mind of 
the peasant, and are rendered niore attractive from t!ie 
music with which they are united. They associaie 
tjieniselves with his own youthful emotions ; they eie 
vate the object as well as the nature of his attachment ; 
and give to the impressions of sense the beautiful 
colours of imagination. Hence in the course of his 
passion, a Scottish peasant often exerts a spirit of ad- 
venture, of which a S])anioh cavalier need not be 
ashamed. After the labours of the day are over, he 
sets out for the habitation of his mislress, perhaps at 
many miles distance, regardless of the length or the 
dreariness of the way. He approaches her in secresy, 
under the disguise of night. A signal at the door or 
window, perhaps agreed on, and understood by none 
but her, gives information of his arrival ; and some- 
times it is repealed again and again, before the capri- 
cious fair one will obey the summons. But if she fi- 
vours his addresses, she escapes unobserved, and re- 
ceives the vows of her lover under the gloom of twilight, 
or the deeper shade of night. Interviews of this kind 
are the subject* of many of the Scottish «ongs, some ci 
the most beautiful of which Burns has imitated or im- 
proved. In the art which they celebrate he was per- 
fectly skilled ; he knew and had practsed all its mypie- 
ries. Intercourse of this sort is indeed universal even 
in the humblest condition ot man in every region of the 
earth. But it is not unnatural to suppose that it may 
exist in a greater degree, and in a mote romantic 
form, among the peasanry of a country who are sup- 
posed to be more than commonly instructed ; who find 
in their rural songs expressions for their youthful emo- 
tions : and in whom the embers of passion are couiinu- 
ally fanned by the breathings of a :nusic full of teiuler- 
ness andseu3ibility. The direct influence of physical 
causes on the attachment between the sexes is com- 
paratively small, but it is modified by moral causes 
beyond any other affection of the mind. Of these, mu- 
sic and poetry are the chief. Among the snows of 
Lapland, and under the burning sun of Angola, the 
savage is seen hastening to bis mistress, and every 
where he beguiles the weariness of his journey with 
poetry and song.' 

In appreciating the happiness and virtue of a com- 
munity, there is perhaps no single criterion on which 
so much dependence maybe placed, as the stale of the 
intercourse between the sexes. Where this display? 
ardour of attachment, accompanied by purity of cnn. 
dur.t, the character and the influence of v/oman rise in 
society, our imperfect nature mounts in the scale of 
moral excellence ; and,f'-om the source of this single 
affection, a stream of felicity descends, which branches 
into a thousand rivulets that enrich and adorn the 
field of life. Where the attachment between the sexes 
sinks into an appetite, the heritage of our species is 
comparatively poor, aud man approaches the condition 
ofrAc- brutes thntprish. " If we could with safety 
indulge the pleasing supposition that Fingal Jived and 

* The North American Indians, among whom the 
attachment between the sexes are said to he weak, and 
love, in the purer sense of the word, unknown, »eem 
nearlv unacquainted with the charms of poslry aud 
musits. ieeWM'a Toun: 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



that Ossian tung,"* Scollaiid, judging from this crite- 
rion, might be considered as ranking liigh in happiness 
and virtue in very remote ages. To appreciate her 
siiualion by the same criterion, would be a delicate and 
diliicuU undertaking. Atier considering the proba- 
ble influence of her popular songs and her national 
music, and examining how far the effects to be ex- 
pected from these are supported by facts, the iuquirer 
would also have to examine the influence of other 
Causes, and particularly of her civil and ecclesiastical 
institutions, by which the character, and even the man- 
ners of a people, though silently and slowly, are often 
powerfully controlled. In the point of view in which 
we are considering the subject, the ecclesiastical estab- 
lishments of Scotland may be supposed peculiarly fa- 
vourable to purity of conduct. The dissoluteness of 
manners among the Catholic clergy, which proceeded, 
and in some measure produced the Reformation, led 
to an extraordinary strictness on the part of the re- 
formers, and especially in that particular in which the 
licentiousness of the clergy had been carried to its 
grKatesi height— the intercourse between the sexes. 
Onthi* point, as on all others connected with austerity 
of manners, the disciples of Calvin assumed a greater 
severity than those of the Irotestant episcopal church. 
The punishment of illicit connexion between the sexes. 
Was throughout all Europe, a province which the clergy 
assumed to themselves i and the church of Scotland, 
which at the Reformation renounced so many powers 
anil privileges, at that period took this crime under her 
more especial jurisdiction. t When pregnancy takes 
place without marriage, the condition of the female 
causes the discovery, and it is on her, therefore, in the 
first instance, that the clergy and elders of the chuich 
exercise their zeal. After examination before the kirk- 
session, touching the circumstances of her guilt, she 
must endure a public penance, and sustain a public re- 
biiKe from the pulpit, for three Sabbaths successively, 
ill the face ot the congreealion to which she belongs, 
and thus have her weakness exposed, an;l her shame 
blazoned. The sentence is the same wiili respect to 
the male; but how mucW lighter the punishment ! It 
is well known that this dreadful law, worthy the iron 
minds of Calvin and of Knox, has often led to conse- 
quences, at the very mention of which human nature 
recoils. 

While the punishment of incontinence prescribed by 
the insiiiutions of Scotland is severe, the culprits have 
an obvious method of avoiding it afforded them by the 
law respecting marriage, the validity of which requires 
neither the ceremonies of the church, nor any other 
Ceremonies, but simply the deliberate acknowledgment 
of each other as husband and wife, made by the parlies 
before witnesses, or in any other way that givts legal 
ev.i(ience of such an acknowledgment having taken 
place. And as the parties themselves fix the date of 
their marriage, an opportunity is thus given to avoid 
the punishment, and repair the consequences of illi- 
cii gralificaiion. Such a degree of laxity respecting 
10 Serious a contract might produce much confusion in 
the descent of property without a still farther indul- 
geuCK ; but the law of Scotland, legitimating all 
children born before wedlock, on the subsequent mar- 
riage of their parents, renders the actual dale of the 
marriage itself of little con8equenc>;.| Marriage^ 
contracted in Scotland without the ceremonies of ihe 
church, are considered as irrtgular, and the parties 
usually submit to a rebuke for their conduct, in the 
face of their respective consregations, which is not 
however necessary to render the marriage valid. 
Boras, whose marriage, it will appear, was irregular, 
does not seem to have undergone this part of the disci- 
pline of the church. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland are in 
many particulars favourable to a conduct among the 
peasantry founded on foresight and reflection, on the 
subject of marriage the reverse of this is true. Irregu 

• Gibbon. 

T See Appendix, No 1. Note C. 

I Se« Appendix, Ko. 1, Snia D. 



I lar marriages, it may be naturally (uppoied, are odea 
improvident ones, in whatever rank of society they 
occur. The children of such marriages, poorly en- 
dowed by their parents, find a certain degree of instruc- 
tion of easy acquisition ; but the comforts of life, and 
the gratifications of ambition, they find of more diffi- 
cult attainment in their native soil ; and thus the 
marriage laws of Scotland conspi«-e with other cir- 
cumstances, to produce the habit of emigration, and 
spirit of adventure, for which the people are so re 
markable. 

The manners and appearance of the Scottish 
peasantry do not bespeak to a stranger the degree 
of their cultivation. In our own country, their indus- 
try is inferior to that of the same description ef men 
in the southern division of the island. Industry and 
the useful arts reachei' Scotland later than England; 
and though their advance has been rapid there, the 
effects produced are as yet far inferior both in realiiy 
and in appearance. The Scottish farmers have in 
general neither the opulence nor the comforts of those 
of England, neither vest the same capital in the soil, 
nor receive from it the same return. Theirclothing, 
their food, and their habitations, are almost every 
where inferior.' Their appearance in these respects 
corresponds with the appearance of their country ; ai.d 
under the operation of patient industry, both are im- 
proving. Industry and the useful arts come later into 
England, because the security of properly came later. 
With causes of internal agitation and warfare, similar 
to those which occurred to the more southern nation, 
the people of Scotland were exposed to more imminrnt 
hazards, and more extensive and destructive spolia- 
tion, from external war. Occupied in the maiiitenaiue 
of their independence against their more powerful 
neighbours, to this were necessarily sacrificed the arti 
of peace, and at certain periods, the flower of their 
population. And when the union of the crowns pro- 
duced a security from national war* with England, for 
the century succeeding, the civil wars common to 
both divisions of the island, and the dependence, per- 
haps the necessary dependence of the Scottish council! 
on those of the more powerful kingdom, counteracted 
this disadvantage. Even the union of the British na- 
tions was not, from obvious causes, immediately fol- 
lowed by all the benefits which it was ultimately de» 
lined to produce. At length, however, these benefit! 
are distinctly felt, and generally acknowledged. I rop- 
erty is secure ; manufactures and commerce increni- 
ing ; and agriculture is rapidly improving in Scotland. 
As yet, indeed, the farmers are not, in general, enabled 
to make improvements out of their own capitals, a! 
in England ; but the landholders, who have seen and 
felt the advantages resulting from them, contribute to- 
wards them with a liberal hand. Hence property, ai 
well as population, is accumulating rapidly on the 
Scottish soil ; and the nation, enjoying a great part of 
the blessings of Englishmen and retaining ceveral ol 
iheirown happy institutions, might be considered, if 
confidence could be placed in human foresight, to be a! 
yet only in an early stage of tlieirprogress. Yet there 
are obstructions in their way. To the cultivation of 
the soil are.opposed the extent and the strictness of the 
e'ltails ; to the improvement of the people, the rapidly 
increasing use of spirituous liquors, f a detestable prac* 
tice, which includes in its consequences almost cvtr^ 
evU, physical and moral. The peculiarity social di«. 

* These reniarks are confined to the clai! of far- 
mers ; the same corresponding inferior will not be 
found in the condition of the cottagers and labourer*, 
at least in the article of food, as those who examine 
this subject impartially will soon discover. 

t The amount of the duty on spirits distilled in 
Scotland is now upwards of 250,000/. annually. lo 
17T7, it did not reach 8,000Z. The rale of the duly haa 
indeed tieen raised, but making every allowance, the 
increase of consumption must be enormous. Thii i» 
independent of the dutyou malt, 4c. mall liquor im- 
ported spirits, and wixiii. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



oosition of ihe Scottish peasantry exposes them to this 
practice. This disijosiiiou, whioh is fostered by ihtir 
QuLiuiial son^s and music, is perhaps cliaracteristic of 
the nation ut large. Though tlie source of inaiiy 
pleasures, it counteracts by its coiisequeiices the etiects 
01 Uieir patience, industry, atid frugai'/v, botli at 
home and abroad, of wliich those espucidliy who have 
witnessed the progress of Scolchmdii in other coun- 
tries, must liave Itnowu many striking ins<,ances. 

Since the Union, the manners and language of the 
people of Scotland have no longer a s'.ajidard among 
themselves, but are tried hy the standard Oi the Million 
to wliich they are united. Though their habits are 
lar Irom being flexible, 7c'. it is evident that thc-ir man- 
ners and dialect are undergoiiio a rapid change. Kven 
the farmers of the present day apear to have less of 
the peculiarities of their country iu their speech, than 
llie men of letters of the last generation. Burns, who 
never left the island, nor penetrated farther into Eng- 
'and than Carlisle on the one hand, or Newcastle on 
tne other, had less of the Scottish dialect than Hume, 
who lived for many years in the best society of iing- 
laiid and France : or perhaps than Robertson, who 
wro.e the Knglish language in a style of such purity ; 
and it he had been Vi other respects fitted to take a 
lead in the British House of Commons, his pronuncia- 
tion would neither have fettered his eloquence, nor de- 
prived it of its due efl'ect. 

A striking particular in the character of the Scottish 
peasantry, is one which it is hoped will not be lost — 
the strength of their domestic attachments. The ini- 
vatiun to which many parents submit for the good of 
Iheir children, and particularly to obtain for thern 
in.'itruclion, which they consider as the chief good, has 
already been noticed. If their children live and pros- 
per, they have ti.eir certain reward, not merely in 
witnessing, 'mt as shaiiiig of their prosjierity. Even 
iu the humblest ranks of the peasantiy, the earnings 
c'''he children may generally be considered as at the 
disposal of their parents ; perhaps in no country is so 
large a portion of the wages of labour applied to the 
support and comfort of those whose days of labour are 
past. A similar strength ofattachmenl extends through 
all the domestic relations. 

Our poet partook largely of this amiable character- 
istic of his humble compeers ; he was also strongly 
tinctured with another striking feature which belongs 
to them, a partiality for his native country, of which 
many proofs may be found in his writings. This, it 
must be confessed, is a very strong and general senti- 
ment among the natives of Scotland, differing, how- 
ever, in its character, according to the character of the 
difl'erent minds in which it is found ; in some appearing 
a selfish prejudice, in others, a generous arlection. 

An attachment to the land of their birth is, indeed, 
common to all men It is found among the inhabitants 
of every region of the earth, from the arctic to the an- 
tartic circle, in all the vast variety of climate, of sur- 
face and of civilization. To analyze this general sen- 
liiiieiil, to trace it through the mazes of association up 
•o the primary affection in which it has its source, 
would neither be a difficult nor an unpleasing labour. 
On the first consideration of the subject, we shot; Id 
perhaps expect to find this attachment strong in pro- 
poTtion to the physical advantages of the soil ; but in- 
quiry, far from confirming this supposition, seems 
rather to lead to an opposite conclusion. In those fer- 
tile regions where beneficent nature yields almost 
Spontaneously whatever is necessary to human wants, 
patriotism, as well as every other generous sentiment, 
seems weuk and languid. In countries less richly en- 
dowed, whei-e the comforts, and even necessaries of 
life must be purchased by patient toil, the affections of 
the mind, as well as the faculties of the understanding, 
improve under exertion, and patriotism flourishes 
amjilst Its kindred virtues. Where it is necessary to 
combine for mutual ilefence, as well as for the sup- 
ply of common wants, mutual good-will springs from 
mutual difficulties and labours, the social affections 
unfold themselves, and extend from the men with 
whom we live, to the soil on which we tread. It will 
''•rhapg be found indeed, that our affections cannot be 

H 



j originally called forth, but by objects capable, or sup 
I posed capable, of feeling our sentiments, and of retnrii. 
I ing them ; but when once excited they are strengthen 
ed by exercise, they art expanded by the f)owers 0I 
imagin;ition, and seize more especially on those ii.ani 
in;ae parts of creation, which form the the. are on 
which we have first fell the alternations of joy, and 
florrow, and first tasted the sweets of syminuhy and 
legiird. If this reasoinng be just, the love of our 
country, although modified, and even extingiuslied iu 
individuals by the chances and changes of life, may be 
IPi-esumed, in our general reasonings, to be strong 
among a people in proportion to their social, and 
more especially to ineir domestic affections. In 
free goveriunents it is found more active than in 
liespoiic ones, because as the individual becomes 
lit more consequence in the community, the com- 
munity becomes of more consequence to him. In 
email states it is generally more active than in large 
ones, for the same reason, and also because tlo^ in 
dependence of a small community being maintained 
with difficulty, and frequently endangered, sentiments 
of patriotism are more frequently excited. In moun- 
tainous couFitries it is generally found more active than 
in plains, because there the necessities of life ol'teu re- 
quire a closer union of the inhabitants ; and more es- 
pecially, because in such countries, though less popu- 
lous than plains, the inhabitants, instead of lie;iig 
scattered equally over the whole are usiiaiiy divided 
into small communities on the sides of their 8e|iarnte 
valleys, end on the banks of their respective streams ; 
situations well calculated to cal' ♦'orth and to concen- 
trate the social affections, amidst scenery ihiii acta 
most powerfully on the sight, and makes a lasting im- 
pression on the memory. It may also be remarked, 
that mountainous countries are often peculiarly cal- 
culated to nourish sentiments of national pride' and 
independence, from the influence of history on the at- 
fections of the mind. In such countiies from their 
natural strength, inferior nations have maintained 
their independence against their more powerful neigh- 
bours, and valour, in all ages, has made its most suc- 
cessful effort against oppression. Such countries pr-e- 
sent the fields of battle, where the tide of invasion wa« 
rolled back, and where the ashes of those rest, who 
have died in defence of their nation. 

The operation of the various causes we have men- 
tioned is doubtless more general and more permanent, 
where the scenery of a country, the peculiar manners 
of its inhabitants, ami the martial achievments of their 
ancestors are embodied in national songs, and united 
to national music. By this combination, the ties that 
attach men to the land of their birth are multiplied and 
strengthened : and the images of infancy, strongly as- 
sociating with the general affections, resist the influ- 
ence of time, and of new impressions ; they often sur- 
vive in countries far distant, and amidst far dif- 
ferent scenes, to the latest periods of life, to sooth 
the heart with the pleasures of memory, when those of 
hope die away. 



If this reasoning be just, it will explain to us why, 
among the natives of Scotland, even of cultivated 
minds, we so generally find a partial attachment to the 
land of their birth, and why this is so strongly discov- 
eiable in the writings of Burns, who joined in the 
higher powers of the understanding the most ardeiH 
afections. Let no men of reflection think it a super 
fliious labour to trace the rise and progress of a cha 
racier like his. Born in the condition of a peasant, ha 
rose by the force of his irtind ir>to distinction and influ- 
ence, and in his works has exhibited what are so rare- 
ly found, the charms of original genius. "With a deep- 
insight into the human heart, his poetry exhibits high 
powers of imagination — it displays, and as it were em- 
balms, the peculiar manners of his country ; and it 
may be considered as a monument, not to his o\m 
name onlv, but to the expiring genius ot an ancient and 
once independent nation. In relating the incidents oj 
his life, candour will prevent us from dwelling invidi 
ously on those failings which justice forbids us to con- 
eal ; we will tread lightly over hie yet warm ashek, 
and respect the laurels that shelter hix uutirneiy 
grave. 



THE lilFJG 



OF 



B7 DR. CURRIE. 



ROBERT BURNS was a'jiawel' known, Ihe non 

• t'a tarmer in Ayrshire, an;t auerwards himself a t"ar- 
»ner there ; but, having been unsuccessful, he was 
about tu emigrate to Jamaica. He had previously, 
huwever, attracted gome notice by his poetical talents 
in the vicinity where he live>i ; and liaving [jublislied 
a small volume of his poems at Kilmarnock, this di e w 
upon him more general attention, in consequence of 
the encourag-emenl he received, he repaired to Edin- 
ourgh, and there published by siibscription, an im- 
proved and enlarged edition of his poems, wliich met 
with extraordinary success. By the profits arising 
from the sale of this edition, he was enabled to enter 
on a farm in Dumfnes-Bliire ; and having married a 
person to whom he had long been attached, he retired 
to devote the remainder of his life to agriculture. He 
was ag:i.in, however, unsuccessful ; and, abandoning 
his farm, he removed inioXhe town of Dumfries, where 
he filled an inferior office in the excise, and where he 
lerminaled bis life, in July 1796, in hi» tliirly-eighth 
year. 

The strength and originality of his genius procured 
him the notice cf many persons distinguished in the 
republic of letters, and among others, that of Mr. 
Woore, well known for his Views o/ Society and Mnn- 
nurs on Ike Continent of Europe, Zehico, and various 
other works. To this gentleman our poet addressed a 
letter, alter his first visit to Edinburgh, giving a history 
of his life, up to tl'e period of his writing. In a com- 
position never intended to see the light, elegance, or 
I'erfcct correctness of composition will not be expected. 
These, however, will be compensated by the opportu- 
nity of seeing our poet, as he gives the incidents of his 
life, unfold the peculiarities of his character with all 
the careless vigour and open sincerity of his mind. 

MauchHne,2d August, 1787. 
" Sir, 

" For some months past I have been rambling over 
the country ; but I am now confined with some linger- 
ing complaints, originating, as I take it, in the stomach. 
To divert my spirits a little in this miserable f'g of 
ennui, I have taken a whim to give you a history of 
my life. My name has made some little noise in this 
country ; you have done me the honour to interest 
yourself very warmly in my behalf; and 1 think a 
faithful account of what character of a man I am, and 
how 1 came by that character, may perhaps amuse you 
In an idle moment. I will give you an honeet narra- 
tive ; though I know it will be often at my own ex- 
pense ; for I assme you, Sir, I have, like Solomon, 
whose character, excepting in the trifling aflfair of 
uisdom, I sometimes think 1 resemble — I have, I say, 
like him, turned my eyes to beliold madness and folly, 
and, like him, too frequently shaken hands with their 
intoxicating friendship.' * * After you have perused 
these pages, should you think them trifling and imper 
.ineiit, tonly beg leave to tell you. *hat the poor author 
wro.e ihera under »om» twitching ouairas of con- 



science, arising from snsjDicion that he •«■»» dring what 
he ought not to do : a predicament he has more llian 
once been in before. 

" I have not the most distant pretensions to assume 
that character which the pye-coated guardians of es- 
cutcheons call a Ge;illem;iii. When at Kdinburgh 
last winter, I got acquainted in the Hemlii's iJllice ; 
and, looking ihrougli that granary ol honours, 1 
there" found almost every name in the kingdom: but 
forme, 

" My ancient but ignoble hlood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood.'* 

Gules, Purpure, Argent, &c. quite disowned me. 

" My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of 
a farmer, and was thrown by early niisfortnnesnn the 
world at large ; wheie, after many years' wanilerines 
and sojouniings, he picked up a pretty large quantity 
of observation and experience, to which 1 am indebted 
for most of my little pretensions to wisdom. I have 
met with few who understood /n n, th.ir m mnn-s. and 
tlteirwnys,t(\»d.\ to him ; but stnltboni. ungainly in- 
tegrity, and iieadlong ungovernable irascibility, are 
disqualifying circumstances ; consequently I was born 
a very poor man's son. For the first six or sever, 
years of my life, my father was gardener to a woriliy 
gentlemaiiof small estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. 
Had he continued in that situation, I must have 
marched otf to be one of the little underlings about a 
farm house ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer fc 
have it in his power to keep his children under liis own 
eye till they could discern between gno«t and evil ; so 
with the assistance of Ids generous master, my lather 
ventured on a small farm on his esmte. At those 
years 1 was by no means a favorite with any body. I 
was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stub- 
born, sturdy something in my disposition, and an en- 
thusiastic ideof piety. 1 say ideol piety, becaime 1 
was then but a child. Though it cost the schoolmasiei 
some thrashings, I made an excellent Knglish scholar ; 
and by the time 1 was ten or eleven years of age, I was 
a critic in substantives, verbs, and I'arlicles. In my 
infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old 
woman who resided in the lamily, remarkable fur hei 
ignorance, credulity and siipersiition. She liad, i 
suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales 
and songs, concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies 
witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf candles 
dead lights, writhes, apparitions, tantraips, giants, 
enchanted towers, dragons, and oilier trumjjery. 
This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so 
strong an effect en my imagination, that to tliit bc-jr, 
in my nocturnal rambles I sometimes keej) a sharp 
look-out in suspicious places : and though ucbooy cbi> 

* Idiot /or idiotie. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



K 



be more teeptical than I am In tuch matters, yet it of- 
ten lakes an effort of philosophy to shake ofl' these idle 
terrors. The earliest composition that i recoiiecl tak- 
ing pleasure in, was The Vision oj Mirz:i,:\\H{ a hymn 
oi Anderson's, beginning, IIoxB are thy sei-omits blesl, 

Lord! I pariicuhirly remember one lialf stanza, 
wliicli was music to my boyisli ear — 

" Tor though on dreadful wliirs we hung 
High on the broken wave — " 

1 met with these pieces in Mason's English Collection, 
one of my school bonks. 'I'hese two first hooks i ever 
read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than 
any two books ! ever read since, were T/ie Life of 
Hii'i'iibnl and The Hislojy of Sir William Wallace. 
Uaimibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that 1 used 
to strut in raptures up and down after the recruit 
ing drum and bag-pi(,e. and wish myself tail enough 
to be a soldier; while the Ki.iry of Wallace poured 
n Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will boil 
along there till the flood-gates of Ufe shut in eternal 



" Polomical divinity abovit this time was putting the 
cmiiiry half mad; and I, amliiiious of shining ip con- 
Tersation parties on Sundays, between sermons, at 
f.merals, &c. Uiied, .-i few years afterwards, to puzzle 
Caivinism with so much heal and ijidiscretion that 1 
raised a hue and cry of heresy against me, which has 
liot ceased to this hour. 

" My vicinity to Avrv/asof some advantage tome. 
Afy social disposition, when not checked by some 
m)diflcaiions of spirited pride. was, like our catechism 
dufiiiition ol infinitude, 'oiV/io /? bounls or limits. 1 
formed several coiniexions with otlier younkers who 
possessed superior advantages, the yo,n°-/i//o- actors, | 
who were busy in the rehearsal of I'arts in which they 
were shortly to appear on the staie of life, where, 
Rias ! I was destined to drudge behnid the scenes. It 
io not commonly at this greenage that our youns gen- 
try have a just sense of the immense distance between 
them and ilieir ragged play-fellows. It takes a few 
dashes into the world, to give the young great man 
that proper, decent, rninoticing disregard for the |)oor, 
insignificant, stupid devils, the mechanics and |)easant- 
ry around him, who were per.'iaps born in the same 
village. My young superiors never insulted the cloul- 
erly appearance of my ploughboy carcass, the two ex- 
tremes of wliich were'ofien expo'sed to all the inclem- 
encies of all the seasons. They would give me stray 
volumes of books ; among them, even then, I could 
pick up some observations ; and one, whose heart [ 
am sure not even the Mitniy Begum scenes have 
tainted, helped me to a little French. I arting with 
these my young friends and benefactors as they occa- 
sionally went oft' for the Kast or West Indies, was 
olien to me a sore affliction ; bu' l was soon called to 
more sjrions evils. My father's generous master 
died: the farm proved a ruinous bargain; and, to 
clench ihe inisrortune, we fell into the hands of a 
factor, who sal for the picture I have drawn of one i.i 
my T.le of Tw, Doss. My father was advanced in 
.'ife when he married ; I was the eldest of seven chil- 
dren ; and he worn out by early hardships, was unfit 
for labour. My father's spn-it was soon irritated, but 
not easily broken. T'lere was a freedom in his lease 
in two years ui'ire; T-.i', to weather these two years, 
We retrenched our expenses. We lived veiy poorly: 
I w;us a dexterous ploughman, for my age"; and the 
next eldest to rue v/as a brother (Gilbert) who could 
drive the plouHh very well, and help me to thrash ihe 
corn. A novel writer nvihv perhaps have viewed these 
scenes with .^ome siiiisfaciion ; but so ditl not I ; mv 

iiiili-iiaiion yet boils at the recollectivn of the s '.\ 

factor's insiilent threatening letters, which used to set 
•a.^ ill in tears. 

" Thu kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit, 
with the UHceafing moil of a galley-slave, brought me 
lo my sixteenth year ; a little before which period I 
first committed the sin of Rhyme. You know our 
eonntry custom of coupling a man and woman to- 
gether as partuers ia the labours of harveiit. In my 



fifteenth autumn my partner was • jvltchlng crea- 
ture, a year younger than niysely My scarcity of 
English denies me the power ofdoins ler justice in thai 
language; but you know ihe Scum'.-- idiorn — she was 
a hon IV-, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altojiether 
unwittingly to herself, initiated rne in that deficioui 
passion, which in spite of acid disappoinimem, gin- 
horse prudence, and book-worm philosophy, 1 hold lo 
be the first of human joys, oui dearest lilessins here Le 
low! How she caught the coniaaion 1 caiinol tell : you 
medical people talk much of ii. lection from breathing 
the same air, the touch, &c. ; but I never exiiressly 
said 1 ioved her. Indeed 1 did not know mvseh' >viiv 1 
liked so much to loiter behind with her, when i etnrning 
in the evening Irom our labours ; wliv the tones of her 
voice made my heari strings thrill like an .^olian harp ; 
and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ru-- 
tan when 1 looked and fingered over her little hand to 
pick out the cruel, nettle stinss and thistles. Among 
her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweeily ; 
and It was her favorite reel, to which 1 atiempled giv- 
ing an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was noi so pre- 
sumptuous as to imagine that I could make verses like 
primed ones, composed by men who hvi Greek and 
Latin ; but m.y girl sung a song, which was said to r^e 
composed by a small counlr" hurd's son, on one of his 
maids, with whom he was .n love I and 1 saw no ,-ea- 
son why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, except- 
ing that he could smear sheej), and cast jieals, his fa- 
ther living in the moorlands, be had no more scholar- 
craft Lhan myself.' 

"Thus with me began love a?id poetry: which at 
times have been my only, and till witliin the last twelvi 
months, have been my highest enjoyment. My father 
struggled on till he reached llie freedom in his lease; 
wlien he entered on a lai'ser (arm, about ten miles far- 
ther in the counti-y. The nature of the bargain he 
made was such as to throw a little ready money into 
his hands at the conimeiicemen of his lease, otherwise 
the afi'air would have been impracticable. For four 
years we lived coniforiaMy here ; but a diU'erence 
commencing between him and his landlord as to terms, 
after three years tossing and whirling in the voriex or 
liiigation, my father was just saved from the horrors 
of a jail by a consumption, which, alter two vear*' 
promise, kindly stepped in and carried him away, lo 
inhere the wicked cease from troubling, and lice weary 
are at rest. 

" It is during the time that we lived on this farm, 
that my little story is most eventful. 1 was, at the 
besinr.ing of this period perhaps the n^osi ungainly, 
awkward boy iiuhe parish— no solitare was les.s ac- 
quainted with the ways of the world. VVhat 1 knew 
of ancient story was gathered from Solomon^ s and 
Guthrie^s geographical grammars ; and the ideas I 
had formed of modern manners, of literature and criti- 
cism, r j'ot from the Spectator. These with Pope's 
Works, and some plays of Shnkspeare, Tull and Dick- 
son cu /.gric dture. The Pantheon, Lock-'s Essay on 
th'i HumanUrtderstanding, Scackhouse'sHistory of the 
Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Dir>:c'tory, 
Bayle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's 
Scripture Doctrhf^ of Originil Sin, A Select Coll c- 
tion of English Songs, and Ilervey's M,ditntions, 
had formed the whole of my reading. The collection 
of Songs was my vade mecum. 1 pored over thtrt? 
driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song 
verse by verse : carefully noting the true tender, or 
sublime, from affectation and fustian. 1 am convinced ^ 

I owe to this practice much of my critic craft, such ai ^ 

it is. 

"In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a 
brush, 1 went to a coniuiy dancingschool. My t'athei 
had an unaccountable antipathy against these meet- 
ings ; and my going » as. whai to this moment I reneut, 
in opposition to his wishes. My father, as 1 said be- 
fore, was subject to strong passions ; from that in- 
stance of disobedience in me he took a sort of dislike to 
me, which 1 believe was one cause of the dissipation 
which marked my succeeding years. ! say d'ssipa- 
tioii, comparatively with the strictness andsobtisty 

* S»e Appendix, No. II. Note X. 



13 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



and regulfirily ot presbyierian countiy life ; for though 

llie Will o' V'v'is^ melcors ul' tliuiiuhtless whim were 
almos; llie sole ligljis Vi my luiLii, vel early Uigiiiiiitil 

wiiliiii Lhe line ui' imiocence. 'I'lie tfre^il imslorluue of 
.-r:y iUe was lo want an aim. I liail lelt early some 
SLirrli.^s olai'ibiuoa, bia Uiey weie llie bliiiil gropiiigs 
oi'.iomer 3 <Jyclop romnl ilie walls olliis cave. I saw 
my iaiiier's siiuauou entailed on mt iicrpetual labour. 
'I'iiuonly iwoopeiiuigs by wliicli I coiildenier the tem- 
ple ot h'oi-tune, was tile ^aie of niggardly economy, or 
the path of lillle chicaning bargam-niaking. 'I'lie tirst 
is so contracted an aperture, 1 never could squeeze 
myself mio it; — the last I always hated — there was 
contamination in llie very entrance I 'I'lius abandon- 
ed of aim or view in hie, with a strong ajipelite tor 
sociability, as well from native lulaiily as Iroma pride 
of observation and remark; a consiuntional melan- 
choly 01' hypochondraism that made me tiy from soli- 
tude ; add' to these incentives to social life, my reputa- 
tation for bookish kiiowleilge, a ceriain wild li.gical 
talent, and a strength of thought, something like the 
rudiments of good sense ; ami it will not seera surp/is- 
iiig that 1 wasgenerally a welcome guest where 1 visit- 
ed, or any great wonder that, always where two or 
three met together, there was 1 ami'iig them. But far 
beyond all other impulses of my heart, was un p.n- 
chail a Tadorable moitie du g-jtire hu/iiiin. Aly 
heart was completely liniler, and was eternally lighted 
up by sonic goddess or other ; and as in every other 
warlare in this world, my fortune was various, some- 
times I \v s received with lavour, and sometimes I 
was mortitied with a. repulse.. At the plough, scythe, 
or reaping hook, 1 feared no competitor, and thus 1 set 
absolute waul at deliuuce ; aiul as I never cared far- 
ther lor my labours tlian while 1 was in actual exer- 
cise, 1 spent the evenings in the way alter my own 
heai I. A country lad seldom carries on a love-adven- 
Inre without an ascenting corhdaiit. 1 possessed a 
curiosity, zeal, and mlrei^id dexterity, that recom- 
men-led' me as a proper second on these occasions ; 
ami 1 dare say, I fell as much pleasure m being in the se- 
cret 01 half the loves of the parish 01 Tarbolton, as ever 
dill statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the 
courts of h-uro|.e. I' he very goose feather in iriy liaiid 
seems 10 Know instinctively the well •.vorii path of my 
imagmation, the lavoiirile theme of my song: and is 
Willi diiticuliy restrained from giving you a couple of 
paragraphs Jn the love adventures of my cum|)eers, the 
humble inmates of the larm-house, and coltaie, but 
the grave sons of science, umbition, or avarice, bap- 
tize these iliings by the name of Tollies. 'I'o the sons 
and ilaughieis of labour and poverty, they are mai- 
lera ol the most serious nature; to them, the ar- 
dent hope, the sloien interview, the tender farewell, 
are the greatest and most delicious parts of llieir eu- 
joymenl. 

" Another circumstance in my life which niP'^e some 
alterations in my mind and manners, was iha. I spent 
my iimetecnlh summer on a smuggling coa->l, agood 
distance from home at a noted school, t«, .earn m-an- 
suratioii, surveying, dialling, &c. in which 1 made a 
pretty good progress. Bull made a greater progress 
in the knowljdge of mankind. The contraband trade 
was at that lime very successful, and it sometimes hap- 
pened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. 
Kcenes of swaggering, I'iot and ruariiigdissipation were 
till this lime new to me ; but I was no enemy to social 
life, here, though I learnt to (ill my glass, and to mix 
wulioui fear in a drunken squabble, Vet I went on 
Willi a high hand Willi my geometry, till the sun enter 
ed Virgo, a month which is always carnival in my bn- 
Bum, when a charming _^/t//e who lived next door to 
the school, cversel my tngonoinetiy, and set me oti'at a 
tangeiil from the sj/liere of my studies. 1 however 
sii uggled on with my sines and cosines for a few days 
Kiore : butsleppinginio the garden one charming iioeu 
to lake the oiui's aitUude, there 1 met my augel, 

" Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower " 

■ It was iq vain to think of doing . any more 
I 4 at tcimoi. The remaiuing week 1 staid, 1 did 



nothing but craze the faculties of tny soul about her. 
orsiealout to meet her ; and ihe two last nights ■ 



Jiiillless. 



lie country, had sleep been a inoiial sin, 
tins modest and mnoccnt girl liad kept me 



" 1 returnea home very considerably improved. My 
reading was enlaiged with the very impoiiani addi- 
tion ot 'I'liompson's and Shenslone's Works; I had 
seen human nauire in a new phasis ; and I engaged 
Several of my school-lellows to keep up a literary cor- 
respondence with me. 'i'his improved me in coinpo- 
sitiuii. i had met with a coUecti n of letters by ihe 
wits of (iueen Anne's reign, and ! pored over iheiu 
most devouily ; 1 kepi copies of any of my own leilcrs 
that pleased me ; and a comparision between them and 
the composition nf most of my coi reS|iondenls, Haltered 
rny vanity. 1 can led this whim so far, llial though I 
had not three I'arlhiiigs" worth of business in the world, 
yet almost every posl brought nie as many letters as 
d I had been a broad ploildiiig son of day-book and 
iedger. 

" My life flowed on much in the same conrse till my 
tweiuy-third year. V'ivu I' amour, et vine labaealelle, 
Were rny sole |irincli)k-s of action. The addition of 
two moieauihois to my library gave me great plea- 
sure; Hicvne and AVKiiizie — Tristram S/inndi/ i\in\ 
The Man of Feeling — were my bosom lavoiirites. 
; oesy was still a darling walk tor mv mind ; but 
it was only indulged in according to the .Lumonr of the 
hour. I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on 
hand ; took up one or oilier, as it suiieil the momentary 
lone of the mind, and disiiiisseit liie work as it bordered 
un fatigue. Aly passions, when once lighted up, raged 
like so many devils, nil ihey got vent in rhyme ; and 
then the eoiiniiig over my verses like a spell, soothed 
all into quiet I None of the rhymes of tliose days are 
in print except Winter, a Dirge, the elde.lof my 
printed pieces ; T/ie Deulh of Poor Mjk '.i , John 
Barleycorn, and songs lirsl, second, and tnnu. Song 
second was lhe ebiilliiioii of that passion which ended 
the loremenliuned scliuol-busiiresH, 

" My twenty-third year was to tne an impoi-tanl 
era. l artly through whim, ami partly that I wished 
10 set about doing something in lite, I joined a flax- 
dresser in a neighbouring town (Irvine; lo learn his 
trade. 'I'his was an uirlucky atlair. My*"; and 
to finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome car- 
ousal to the new year, the shop t.iok lii-e, and burnt to 
ashes ; and 1 was left like a true poet, not worth a six- 
pence. 

" I was obliged to give up this pch?rr.'! ,• 'be clouds of 
misfortune were gathering thick ro,;..:. .".iv father's 
head ; ajid what was worst of all he was visibly fur 
gone in a cmRumptioir ; and to cr-own my distresses, 
a bellefille whom 1 ador-ed.and who had pledged her 
soul lo meet me in the field of malrimoiiy, jilted me, 
with peculiarcircumstances of muitificalion. 'i'he fin- 
ishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal tile, 
was my co.nsiuutioiu-l melasicholv, being iricre^sed to 
such a degree, that for three inontiis I was in a state of 
mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeles=> wretches 
who have got their mittimus — Depart from me, ye 
accursed I 

" From this advent'ire I learned something of a 
town life ; but the principal thirrg which gave my mind 
a turn, was a friendship I Ibrmed with a young fellow 
a very noble character, but a hapless son of inislor- 
tun;. He was the sun of a simple mechanic; hut a 
great man in the neighbourhot>d taking him under his 
palroirage, gave him a genteel education, with a view 
of bettering his situation in life. The patron dying 
just as he was ready to launch out irrtolhe world, the 
poor fellow in despair went to sea ; where after a va- 
riety of good and ill fortune, a liille before 1 was ac- 
quainted with him, he had been set on siiore by an 
American privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, 
stripped of every thing. I cannot quit this poor 
fellow's story without adding, that he is at this tim« 
master of a large West-in(£aniim belonging lo Ui« 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



13 



" nii mivia vrn» finuprntwUli indei.endence, magna 
nhnity, and every manly virtue. 1 loved aud admired 
iiim to a degree of eiuhosiasm, and of course strove to 
imitate him. In some measure 1 succeeded; I liad 
pride before, liut he tanslil it to flow in [Hoiier cluui- 
nels. His l«nowl8d>;e of the worl.l was viistly si.iierioi 
to mine, and I was 'all allention to learn, he was llie 
only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than my- 
self, where women was the presiding star; Iml he 
spoke of illicit love with the leviiy of a sailor, wliich 
hitherto 1 had regarded with horror. Here his fnend- 
ehipdid me mischief ; and the consequence was thai 
J r.^surned the plough, I wrote \i\iiPoti's Welcome' 
A'ly reading only increased while in this town, by two 
stray volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdimn.d 
Count Fnlhom, which gave me some idea of novels. 
Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in print, 
J had given up ; but meeting with Ftrgiison's Scot- 
tish Poems, 1 strung anew my wildly sounding iyre 
with emulating vigour. When my father <lied, his all 
went among the hell hounds that prowl in the kennel 
of justice ; but we made a shift to collect a little mon- 
ey in the family amongst us, with which, to keep us to- 
gether, my brother, and 1 took a neighboui ing farm. 
Aly brother wanted my hair brained imagination, as 
Well as my social and amorous madness, but, in good 
nense, and every sober qualification he was far my su- 
perior. 

" r entered on this farm with a full resolution, Come, 
gc to, I will bewise ! 1 read farming books ; 1 calcu- 
lated p.rops ; I attended markets ; and, in short, in 
epite of t/ie deeil, and the world, and thejlesh, I believe 
T should have been a wise man; but the first year, 
from unfortunately buymg bad seed, the second, from 
» late harvest, we lost half our crops. This overset 
all my wisdom, and 1 returned like, the dog to his vom- 
it, aud the sow that was washed, to her wallowing in 
themire.1 

I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a 
maker of rliymes. The first of my poetic oft'spriiig that 
«aw the light, was a burlesque lemenlation on a quar- 
rel between two reverend Calvanists, both of them 
dramatis personce in my Holt/ fair. I had a notion 
myself, that the piece had some meiit; but to prevent 
;he worst, 1 gave a copy of it to a friend wlio was very 
•bud of such things, and told him that 1 could outguess 
^ho was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty 
clever. With a certain descri)ition of the clergy, as 



we see thousands daily guilty, are owin? to iheir ig 
norance of themselves. 'I'o know myself I had been £.11 
along my constp.nt study. 1 weighed myseli alone ; J 
balanced myself with others I waiched every means 
of information, to see how much gromxl I occupied as 
a man and as a iioet ; I siiidied asbidiiouslv .Nature"* 



well as laity, it met with i 



of applause. Ilo/y 



Willie's Prnyer next inade its appearance, 
alarmed the kirk-session so rhuch, tliRt they held seve- 
ral meetings to look over llie'T spiritual artillery, if 
haply any of it miehl be pointed against protaiie rliy- 
mtrs. Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me on 
another side, within point blank shoi of their heaviest 
metal. This is the luiforlunate story ihri gave rise to 
my printed poem, The Lament. This was a most 
melaucu'ilv affair, which I cannot yei. bear lo reflect 
on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the 
principal qualifications for a place among those who 
have lost the chart, and mistaken the reckonings of 
Rationality.^ 1 gave up my [)ari of the farm to ray 
brother ; in truth it was only nominally mine ; and 
made what little preparation was in my power for 
Jiiriaica. But before leaving my native ciMiutry for 
ever, 1 resolved to publish my poems. I weighed my 
jiroriuctions as impartially as was in my power; I 
thought they had merit ; and it was a delicious idea 
that 1 should be called a clever fellow, even though it 
should never reach my ears — a poor negro driver ; — or 
perhaps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone 
to the world of spirits! 1 can truly s-av , iUaI pai vre 
Viconn'i as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an 
idea of myself and of my works as I have at this mo- 
ment, when the public has decided in their favour. It 
ever was my opinion, that the mistakes and blunders, 
both in a rational and religious point of view, of which 

* Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Bastard Child. 

t See Appendix, No. TI. Note B. 

J Ad explanation of this will be found hereafter. 



mv ct 



prei 



[lent 



worst the roar of the Atlantic would fU-afeu ti.e 
ce of censure, and the novelty of Wesi Indian scenes 
ke me forget neglect. 1 threw ofi six hunditd cupita, 
of which 1 had got subscriptions for about three hun- 
dred and fifty. j\]y vanity was highly gratified by the 
eception 1 met with from ihe pulilic ;"and besides I 
pockeled, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty 
ouuds. This sum came very seasonably, as 1 wa« 
thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to 
procure my passage. As soon as I was master of tune 
guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I 
took a steel age passage in the first ship that was to Bail 
from the Clyde ; for, 

" Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 

I had been for some days skulking from covert to 
covert, under all the terrois of a jail ; as some ill-ad- 
vised people had uncoupled the mercilt-ss pack of the 
lavs- at my heels. 1 had taken the larewell of my few 
friends ; my chest was on the road to Giecnock ; 1 had 
composed the last song I should ever measure in Cale- 
donia, 77(6 gloomy night is «athei-ins, jast, when a 
letter from Dr. Blacklock, to a friend of mine, over- 
threw all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my 
poetic ambition. The Doctor belonged to a set ot 
critics, for whose applause 1 had not dared to hope. 
His opinion that 1 would meet with encouragement in 
Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so much, 
that away I posted for that city, wilhout a single ac- 
quaintance, orsingle letter of iniroduciicui. The bane- 
ful star which had so long shed its bla^^li^lg influence in 
my zenith, for once made a revolution to the nadir ; 
and a kind 1 rovideuce placed me under the patron- 
age of one of the noblest of men, the iLarl of Gleu- 
cairn. Oublie moi, Grand Dieu, si jamis Je i'- 
oublie ! 

" I need relate no farther. At Kdinburgh 1 was in 
a new world ; I mingled among inany classes of men, 
but all of them new to me, and 1 was all aitenlion to 
caJc/i Ihe characters and the manners living as the}/ 
rise. Whether 1 have profited, time will show. 



" My most respectful compliments to Miss W. Her 
very elegant and friendly letter 1 cannot answer at 
present, as my jiresence is requisite in Kdinburgh, and 
i setout to morrow."* 



At the period of our poet's death, his brother, Gil- 
bert Burns, was ignorant that he had himseil written 
the foregoing narrative of his life while in Ayrshiic ; 
and having been applied to by Mrs. Dunloii for some 
memoirs of his brother, he ccmiplied witii I.er request 
in a letter, from which the following nan ative is chief- 
ly extracted. When Gilbert Burns alttrwards saw 
the letter of our poet to Dr. Moore, he made some 
annotations upon it, which shall be noticed as wt 
proceed. 

* There are various cop.es of this letter in the au 
thor's hand-writing ; and one of these, evidently cor- 
rected, is in the book in which he had copied several ot 
his letters. This has been used for the press, wilt 
some omissions, and one slight alteration suggeiled \>jt 
Gilbert Burns. 



\4 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Robert Burns was horn on the 25th day of January 
i1,)S, in a small house about two miles from the town ol 
fyr, and wiiliiii a lew hmidted yards of Alloway 
ihiircli, which his poem of Tam'o Shanier has reii- 
(ereil immoriitl.* The n:vme which the poet and liis 
■,roi her mudermzed into iinn.s. was oriaiiuiliy Bunies. 
<rBiiriif«s. 'I'iieir fallier, \V'i;iiair. Bunies, was the 
on of a fanner in KujCiudinesliire, and had received 
J)e educnlion eonirnon in Scotland to persons in Ins 
icnditioii of lilu: lie conid read and write, and had 
«onie knowledge of arithmetic. HI is family having fallen 
Into reduced ciicumstancts, he was compelled to leave 
come in his nineteenth year, and tnrned his steps 
towards the south in quest of a livelihood. The 
san-ie necessity attended his older brother Robert. 
" 1 have often heard my father," says Gilbert Burns, 
in his letter to Mrs. JJnnlop, '■' describe the anguish 
of mind lie felt when they parted on the top of a hill on 
; the confines of their native place, e.Tch goine oft his 

several wavin search of new adventures, and scarctlv 
knowing whither liL- went. My father undertook to 
act as a gardener, and shaped his course to Edin- 
burgh, wheie he wrought hard when lie could get 
work, passing thruui^l; a variety of tlllliciilties. Still. 
however, he endeavoured to spare something for the 
BU|;porl of his ai;ed parents : and I recollect hearing 
him mention his having sent a bank-note for this 
purpose, when money of that kind was so scarce in 
Kii'.carflineslure, that they scarcely knew how to cm- 
ploy it when it arrived." Friim Edinburgh, WilliKin 
Burnes passed westward into the county of Ayr, where 
he engaged himself as a gardener to the Laird of 
Fairly, v/iihwhom he lived two years ; then changing 
hi"! p.ervice for that of Crawford of Doonside. At 
• en/'.h. being desiruns of settling in life, hetookaper- 
p^.jal lease of seven acres of land Irom Dr. Camp- 
'jll, physician in -Ayr, with the viewof commencin;^ 
a'^rserynrian and public gardener : and having bui!>. a 
J»3ase upon it witli his own hands, married, in De- 
Mmber 1757, Agnes Brown, the motherof our poet, 
«rho still survives. The fir^l fruit of this marriage 
was Robert, the subject of these memoirs, born on the 
25th of Jhi nary, 17.59, as has already been mentioned. 
Before William Biirnes had made much progiessin 
ri-eparing Lis nursery, he was withdrawn from that 
ai .^Jrtaking by Mr. Pergiison, who purchased the 
*»>.'.e of OooMholm,in the immediate neighbourhood, 
»;.d engaged him as his gardener and overseer ; anti 
tS:3 was his situation when niir poet was born. 
7 hough in the service of Mr. Ferguson, he lived in 
fcn own house. Ins Wife managing her family and her 
i-.".i'.e dairy, which consisted sometimes of two, some- 
ivr.es of three milch cows ; and this state of unamtii- 
ticiis content continued till \he year 1766. His sen 
jrtobeit was sen; by him in his sixth year, lo a schod 
«.t Alloway Miln, about a mile distant, taught by a 
uerson of the name of Campbell . but this teacher 
?sir.g in a few months appointed master of the wtirk- 
ho-.ise at Ayr, VViiiiam Burnes, in coninncli.in with 
•ome other heads of families, engaged John Murdorh 
in his stead. The education of our [met, and of his 
Brother Gilbert, was in common; and of iheirprufi- 
ciency under Mr. Murdoch, we have the following 
account : " With him we learnt lo read English tole- 
rably well.t and to write a little. He taught us, loo, 
the kiiglish grammar. 1 was too young to profit much 
from his lessons in grammar ; but Robert made some 
proficiency in it — a circumstance of considerable 
weight in the unfolding ot his genius a nd character ; 
as he soon became remaikable for the fluency and 
^f'Orrectness of his expression, and read the few 
^^ books that came in his way with much pleastn-e and 
Improvremen: ; for even then he was a reader when 

* This house U on the right-hand side of the road 
from Ayr to Maybole, which forms a part of the road 
from Glasgow tu Port Patrick. When the poet's fa- 
ther afterwards removed to Tarbolton parish, he sold 
his leaseho'd right in this house, and a few acres of 
land adjoining, to the corporation of shoeinakers ih 
Ayr. It is now a country ale house. 

* Letter from Gilbert Burnes to Mrs. Dua.op. 



he ciuld get a book. Murdoch, whose library at «.ha4 
lime had nr WAi variety in it, lent him Tfie hi 'e of 
Haiifihal^ A-tii,,h was tiie fust book he read (:he 
echooliiook excepted.) and almost the only one lit iuwi 
ail opportunitv of reading while he was at .scluciol ; for 
The Lif- of Wallace, wfiicli he classes with it in one 
of his fetters to you, iie did not see for some years af- 
terwards, when he borrowed it from the blacksmiti 
who shod our horses." 

It appears that William Burnes approved himself 
greatly in the service of Mr. Ferguson, by his intelli- 
gence, industry, and integrity. In consequence of tl.is 
with a view of promoting his interest, Mr. Ferguson 
leased hiin a farm, of which we have the lulluwiti;; 
account : 

"The farm was upwards of seventy acres* (be 
tween eighty and ninety English statute measnrr,) 
'.he lent of wiiicli was lobe forty pounds animally for the 
first six years, ami afterwards torty-live pounds. My 
lather emleavouied to sell his leasehokl property, fur 
tlie purpose of stocking this farm, bntatilial timewai 
unable, and Mr. Feiguson lent him a hundred pDiindg 
for that purpose, lie i emoved lo ins new situation at 
Whilsuiuide, 1766. It was, I think, nut above two 
years til.er this, that Murdoch, our tiilor and liicnd, 
led this part of the country ; and there being no 
slIkjuI near us, and our little services being useful on 
the farm, my father undertook to liacli us arithmetic 
in the winter evenings by candie-hght ; and in this 
way my two eldest sisters got all the education ib.iy 
received. I remrinber a cii cnnislance tli.it happened 
at lilts lime, which, thougli trifling in itself, is fiesh in 
my nieniory, and may serve lo illustrate ihe early 
cliaracter of my bruiher. Murdoch came to spend 
a night Willi us, and lo take his leave when he wa« 
about logo into Carrick. I. e brought us, as a present 
and memorial of him, a small coinpeudiuin of English 
Giammar, and ihe tragedy of Titus Aiidronwus, ayiA 
by way of parsing the evening, he began to read the 
play aloud. We were all atl'enlioii for some time, till 
pie.5enily the whole party was di'svolved in tears. A 
leinale in the play (1 have but a confused remem- 
brance of it) had her hands chopt oil, hiid her lonjiue 
cut out, and then was insuliingly de*ired lo call lor 
water lo wash her hands At this, in an agony of 
distress, we with one voice desired lie would read no 
mure. My lather observed, thatil we would iiol hear 
it out, it wouUl be needlesi. to leave the pla)*witli us. 
Robert replied, lliat if it was lelt he would burn it. 
My father was going lo chide hnn fur this ungrateful 
return lo his luiot's kiiidnifss ; but Murdoch iiilrr- 
leied, declaring liiat he liked to see so much sensibili- 
ty ; and he lull Tlie ■ cliooL for Love, a comcily 
ttranslaied 1 think from the French,) in its place. "t 

• Letter ol Gilbert Burns to Mrs. Dunlop. The 
name of ihis farm is Mount Oliphant, in Ayr parish. 

t It is to je remembered that the poet was only nine 
years of age and ihe relator of this incident under 
eight, at the time it happened. The eflect was very 
natural in cliiklren of seiisibilily at their age. Ala 
more mature period of the judgment, such absurd rep 
resentatioiis arc calculated rather to prodice disgn»i 
or laughter, than tears. The scene to wliich Gilbert 
Bunie alludes, opens thus : 

Titus Ar.dronicue, Act If. Scene 5. 

Enter Demetrius and Chiron, with Lnvinia rnmshed, 
her h/iiids cut off, and her tongue cut out. 

Wliy is this silly j)lay still printed as Shafcspearp's, 
against the ojiinion of all the best critics ? The bard 
of Avon was guilty of many extravagances, but li« 
always performed what he intended lo perform. 
That he ever excited in a British mind (for tiie 
French critics must be set aside) disgust or ridicule, 
where he meant to have awakened pily or horror, Ij 
what will not be iirpcted lo that mas'.ei of the {«» 
sious. 



J 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



n 



" NolWng," contiinies Gilbert Burns, " could be 
more retired than our penerai manner of living at 
Mount Oli|iliant ; we rarely saw any body but the 
memhers (if our own family. There were no boys. of 
our own age, or near it, in the neiglibo-jtliood. Indeed 
the greatest part of the land in t!,e vicnnty was at that 
time possessed by shoj)kee()ers, and people of that 
stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept 
their farm in tk^ "ouutry, at the same Lime that they 
followed liDsinC J town. My failier was for some 
time almost the only companion we bad. He conveis 
ed familiarly on all subjects with us, as we had been 
men ; and was at great pains, while we accompanied 
him in the labours of the farm, to lead the conversa- 
tion to such subjects as might tend to increase our 
knowledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He bor- 
rowed .ir,lmon\ Geographiciil Gr.itnmar for us, and 
endeavoured t^ ake us acyuauited with the situation 
and history of ,.ie difterenl countries in the world; 
while friim a book society in Ayr, i,c prucurcd for us 
tile reading of D rkam's Physico and Astrn-Theolngy, 
and Ray's Wisdom of God in the Creation, to s\ve 
•js some idea of astronomy and natural history. Ro- 
bert read all these books with an avidity and ludusliy, 
scarcely to be equalled. My father had been a sub- 
scriber to :^tackho se's Hisloi-y oj Lha Bible then 
lately published by James Meuross in Kilmarnock : 
from this Kobeit collected a competent knowledge of 
history ; for no book was so vokimiiiuus as to slacken 
his industry, or so antiquated as to damp his research 
es. A brother of my mother, who had lived with ns 
some time, and had learnt some arithmetic by winter 
evenings candle, went into a bookseller's shop in 
Ayr, to purchase The Ready R ckoner or Trades- 
mnn's s,.7e Guide, and a book to teach him to write 
letters. Luckily, i.i place of T/ie Compile Letter- 
Writer, he got by mistake a small collection of letters 
by the most em;-:ent writers, with a few sensible di- 
rections lor s'taii.mg an easy epistolary style. This 
book was lo Wo'.ert of the greatest consequence. It 
inspired htm with a strongdesire to excel iii letter ■wri- 
ting, wnile it furnished him with models ot some of the 
first writers in our language. 

'* My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, w^hen 
mr father, resretling that we wrote so ill, sent us 
week about during a summer quarter, to tlie parish 
school of Dalrymple, which, though between two and 
three miles distance, was the nearest to us, that we 
might have an oppoitunity of remedying this defect. 
About this time a bookish acquaintance of my father's 
procured us the reading of two volumes of Richard- 
son'.? Pa.m la, which was ihe fir.'t novel we read, and 
the only part of Hichaidson's works my brother was 
HCqiiHinted with till towards the period of his com- 
mencing aulhor. Tiil that time too he remained iin- 
acquainied with Fielding, with Smollet, (two volumes 
of P-rdinaJid Count Fathom, and two volumes of 
Perezrine Pici-/' excepted,) with Hurne. with Rob- 
ertson, and almost all our authors of eminence of the 
later times. I recollect indeed my father borrowed 
a volume of English history from Mr. Hamilton of 
BoMrtreehill's gardener. It treated of the reign of 
James the First, and his uufortiiiiate son, Charles, but 
I (to not know who was the author ; all thet I remem 
ber of it is something of Charles's conversation with 
his children. About this time Murdoch, our former 
teacher, after having been in different places in the 
Cdunlry, and having taught a school some time in 
P'luifvies, came to he the eslal)li^lled teacher of the 
Knalish language in Ayr, a circumstance of considera- 
ble coii.^equeiice to ns. 'I'he reiriembrance of my 
father's former fiieiKUhip. and his attaciiment to my 
brother, made him do every thing in his power for our 
jmproveini.-nt. lie sent us I ope's works, and some 
other poetry, the first that we had an opi'ortunitv of 
reading; excepting wiiat is contained in Th- English 
Col'ecfio ,and ni" Uie volume of The Edinh nh Mag- 
azine f,n 1772: excepiiug ■d\so thos ■ exclle^^t new 
iOHtis that arc hawked about the country iu baskets, 
ortxpaseil o;: stalls in the streets, 

"The summer after we had been at Dalrymple 
•chodi. my lather sent Robert to Ayr, to revise his 
Knglish grammar, with hiis former teacher. Me had 
Beer, lijire ouly aKtk wtck, whuu ite" vva* obliged to re- 



turn to assist at the harvest. When the harvest was 
over, he went back to school, where he rf iriaiiicd two 
weeks ; and this completes the account of his school ed- 
ucation, excepting one summer quarter, Bome time af- 
terwards, that he attended Hit parish school of Ki-k- 
Oswald, (where he lived with a brother of my UiWi- 
er's,) to learn surveying, 

'' During the two last weeks that he was with Mur- 
doch, he himself was engaged in learning French, and 
he communicated the instructions he received to mr/ 
brother, who, when he returned, brought home witii 
him a French dictionary and grammar, and the Ad- 
Venturis of Tilemathus in the original. In a little 
while, by the aisistance of these books, he had acquir- 
ed such a knowledge of the language, as to read and 
understand any French author in prose. T'.is was 
considered as a sort of prodigy, and through the medi- 
um of Murdoch, procured him the acquaintance of 
several lads in Ayr, who were at that time gabbliti^ 
French, and the notice of some I'amilies, particulaily 
that of Dr. Malcolm, where a knowledge of French 
was a recomnieiidaiion. 

" Observing the facility with which he had acquired 
the French language, Mr. Robinson the established 
writing master in Ayr, acd Mr. Murdoch's particular 
friend, having himself acquired a considerable know- 
ledge of the Latin language by Ins own industry with- 
out ever having learnt it at school, advised R(kiert to 
niake the same attempt, promising him every assist- 
ance in his power. Agieeably to this advise,' he pur- 
chased The Rt.diments of the Latin Tongue, but find- 
ing this study dry and uninteresting; it was quirkiy 
laid aside. He frequently returned to his R. dimeiite 
on any little chagrin or (iisappoiiuinent, particularly 
in his love afiairs ; but the Latin seldom predurnui- 
ated more than a day or two at a time, or a week 
at moat. tJbserving himself the ridicule that would 
attach to this sort of conduct if it were known, he 
made two or three humorous stanzas on the sub- 
ject, which 1 cannot now recollect, but they all ended, 

" So I'll try my Latin again." 

" Thus yon see Mr. Murdoch was a principal 
means of my brother's improvement. 'Worthy man ; 
though foreign to my present purpose, 1 cannot take 
leave of him without traciiighis future history. He 
continued for some years a respected and useful teach- 
er at Ayr, till one evening that he had I'een overtaken 
in liquor, h.-i happeneti to speak somewhat disrespect- 
fully of r)r. Dalrymple, the parish minister, who had 
not paid him thai attention to which he thought him- 
self entitled. In Ayr he might as well have spoken 
blasijhemy. He found it proper to give up hisapiioint- 
ment. IHe went lo London, where h? still lives, a 
private teacher of French. He has been a consid- 
erable time married, and keeps a shop of stationary 
wares. 

"The father of Dr. Patterson, now physician ol 
Ayr, was, I believe a native of Aberdeenshire, and 
was one of the established teachers in Ayr, when my 
father settled in the neighbourhood, lleearlv recog- 
nized my father as a fellow native of the north of Scot- 
laud, and a certain degree of intimacy subsisted be 
twcen them during Mr. Patterson's I'ife. After bi.i 
death, his widow, who was avery geineel woman, ami 
of great worth, delighted in doing what i^he thought 
ner husband would have wished to have done, and as- 
siduously keep lip her attenlions to all his acquaint- 
ance. She kept alive the intimacy with our lamily, 
by frequently inviting my father and mother to her 
house on Sundays, when she met them at church. 

" When she rame to know my brother's passion for 
hooks, she kindly oBered us the use of her husband's 
library, and from her we got ihe Spectator, Pope's 
Translation of Homer, and several other books that 
were of use to us. Mount Oliphant, the farm my 
father possessed in the parish o*" Ayr, is almost >!io 
very jioorest soil 1 know of in a state ot cultivation. « 
stronger proof of this 1 cannot give, than thai . iio» 
withstanding (he extraordinary rise in the valtle ^ 



la^Us iu Scotland, 



alter a cunMderahie »u 



16 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 



laid out in improving it by the proprietor, let a few 
years ago five pounds per annum lower than the rent 
paid for it by my father thirty years ago. My father, 
ill coasequeuce of this, soon came uilo dilticullies 
which were increased by the luss of several of liis cat 
tie by accident and disease. To tlie bufietings of mis 
fortune, we could only oppose hard labour, and the 
most rigid economy. We lived very sparing. For 
several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the 
house, while all the members ot the family exerted 
themselves to the utmost of their sirengih, and rathe 
Deyond it, in the labours of the farm. Aly brother, a 
the age of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop ol 
corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the 
farm, for we had no hired servant, male or female. 
The anguish of mind we felt at our lender years, under 
theee straiU and difficulties, was very great. 'J'o think 
of our father growing old (for he was now above fifty,) 
broken down with the long continued fatigues of his 
life, with a wife and five other children and in a de- 
clining state of circurasiances, these reflections pro- 
duced in my brother's mind ami mine sensaiiuns of the 
deepest distress. 1 doubt not but tlie liard labour and 
Borrow of this period of his life, was in a great measure 
the cause of that depression of spirits with which 
Robert was so often afflicted through his whole life af- 
terwards. At this lime he was almost constantly af- 
flicted in the evenings with a dull head-ache, which at 
a future period of liis life, was exchanged for a palpi- 
tation of the iieart, and a threatening of faintingand 
Buffocatiou iuhis bed iu the uight-time. 

" By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had a 
right to throw it up, if he thought proper, at the end of 
every sixth year. He attempted to fix himself in a 
Ijetter larm at the end of the first six years, but failing 
in that attempt, he continued where' lie was for six 
years more, ile then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 
acres, at the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in tne 

parish of Tarbolton, of Mr. , then a merchant in 

Ayr, and now (17S7,) a merchant in Liverpool. Ile 
removed to this farm on W'liitsunday, 1777, and pos- 
sessed it only" seven years. No writing had ever been 
niade out of the conditions of the lease; a misuiider- 
Bianding took place res[)eciiiig them ; the >*ubjecls in 
dispute Were submitted to arbitration, and the decis- 
ion involved my father's aff'airs in ruin. He lived to 
know of this decision, but not to See any execution in 



" The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (ex- 
tending Irom the seventeenlh to the twentv-fourtli of 
my brother's age,) were not marked by much literary 
impiovemeiit; but during this time, the foundation 
was laid of certain habits in my brother's character, 
which afterwards became but too prominent, and 
•which malice and envy nave taken dchglit to enlarge 
nn. Though when young he was bashful and awk- 
ward in his intercourse with women, yet when he ap- 
proached manhood, his attacliment to their society be- 
came very strong, and he was cousiantly, the victim of 
•ome fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were 
olten such as nearly to equal those of the celebrated 
Sappho. 1 never indeed knew that he Jiinted. sunk, 
and died away; but the agitations of'his mind and 
body exceeded any thing of the kind I ever knew in 
real life. He had always a particular jealousy of peo- 
ple who were richer than himself, or who liad more 
consequence in life. His love, therefore, rarelv settled 
on persons of this description. When he selected any 
one out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom 
he should pay his particular attention she was in- 
etantly invested with a sulRcient stock of charms, out 
ot a piemilul store of his own imagination ; and there 
was otten a great dissimilitude between his fair capli- 
vator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed 
when ii vested with theattiitiutes he gave her. One 
generally reigned paramount in his affections but as 
Yorick's affections flowed out toward Madam de L — 
at the remise door, while the eternal v.iws of Kliza 
were upon him, so Robert was frequently encounter- 
ing other attractions, which formed so many under. 
plots in the drama of his love. As these connexions 
»ere jovisrned by the strictest rules of virtue and 



Biodesty (from which he n«ver ileviated till he reached 
his t^cidyear,) he became anxious to be lu a situaiiu.i 
to marry. This was not liKely lobe soon tne case 
while he remained a farmer, as the stocking of a farm 
required a sum of money he had no probability ul be- 
ing master of for a great while, he began, thtreloie, 
to think of trying some other line of ule. tie and J had 
forseveral years taken laud of my father for llie purpses 
of raising fi'ax on our own accouni. In liie course of 
selling it, Robert began to think of turning flax-dresser, 
both as being suitable to his grand view of settling m 
life, and as subservient to the flax raising. tie 
accordingly wrought at the business of a flax-dress- 
er in Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that 
period, as neither agreeing with his health nor inclina- 
tion. In Irvine he had contracted some acquaintance 
of a freermauner of tliii.king and living than he hud 
been used to, whose society prepared iiim for over- 
leaping tne bounds of rigid virtue which had hitherto 
restrained him. Towards the end ol the period under 
review (in his 24th year,) and soon aftei his fathers 
death, he was furnished with the subject ol his epistle 
to John Rankin. During this period also, he became 
a freemason, which was his first introduction to the 
life of a boon companion. Yet, notwithstanding thtsa 
circumstances, and the praise he has bestowed on 
Scotch drink (which seems to have misled his histori- 
ans,) I do not recollect, during these seven years, nor 
till towards the end of his commencing author (when his 
growing celebrity occasioned his being often in compa- 
ny,} to have ever seen him intoxicated ; nor was he at 
all given to drinking. A stronger proof of tlie genera! 
sobriety of his conduct need not be required thai; what 
1 am about to give. During the whole of the time we 
lived in the farm of Lochlea with my father, he allow- 
ed my brother and me such wages for our labour as he 
gave to other labourers, as a pan of which, every ar- 
ticle of our clothing manulactured in the family was 
regularly accounted for. When iny father's aflaiis 
drew near a crisis, Robert and 1 took the farm of Moss- 
giel, consisting of il8 acres, at the rent of W)/. per an- 
num (the farm on which 1 live at present,) Iruiii Mr. 
Gavin Hamilton, as a asylum for the laniily in case ot 
the worst. It was stocKed by the property and indi- 
vidual savings of the whole family, and was a joint 
concern among us. Every member of the family wa» 
alloNved ordinary wages for the labour he performed on 
the farm. My brother's allowance and mine wa* 
seven pounds per annum each. And during the whole 
time this family concern lasted, which was lour years 
ell as during the preteeding period at Lochlea, iiis 
expenses never in any one year exceeded his slender 
income. As I was tiitrusled with the keeping of tlia 
family accounts, it is not possible that there can be any 
fallacy ill this staiemenl in my brother's lavuur. His 
temperance and frugality were everything that could 
be wished. 

" The farm of Mosjgiel lies very high, and mostly on 
cold Wet bottom. The first four years that we were 
I the farm were very frosty, and the spring was Terf 
late. t)ur crops in consequence were very unprofiiii 
ble ; and, notwiihsianding our utmost diligence aurt 
economy, we found ourselves obliged to give up our 
bargain, with the loss of a considerable part of our 
original stock. It was during these four years that 
Robert formed his connexion with Jean Armour, after- 
wards Mrs. Burns. This connexion couW no loii^ r 
6? corictaled, about this time we came to a final deter- 
mination to quit the farm. Robert durst not engage 
th liis family in his poor uiisettleit state, but was 
anxious to shield his partner, by every means in his 
power, from the consequence of their imprudence. It 
was agreed therefore between them, that they siior.ld 
make a legal acknowledgment of an irregular and pri- 
vate marriage ; and that he should go to Jamaica to 
jjuj/i his fortune.' and that she should remain viriili her 
father till it might please Providence to put the means 
of supporting a family in his power. 

"Mrs. Burns was a great favorite of her father's. 
Theiiuimation of a marriage was the first suggestion be 
rtceived of her real situation. He was in the greatest 
distress and fainted away. The mariage did not ap> 
pear to make the matter better. A husband in Jamai- 
ca appeared to hiraaiiJ bis wife little better tUaii aofta 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



17 



and «n effectual bar to any other prospects of aspttle- 
menl ill life that their diugliier might have. They 
therefore expressed a wish to her, chat the written 
pajjcrs which respected the marriage should be cancel- 
led, and thus the maniase rendered void. In her me- 
lanciioly state she felt the deepest remorse at having 
brouglu such heavy affliction on parents that loved her 
BO tenderly, and submitted to tlieii entreaties. 'I'heir 
wisli was mcKti jned to Robert. He felt the deepest 
anguish of mind. He ortered to stay at home and pro- 
vide lor.h'.s wife and family in the best manner thai his 
daily I'ioours could provide for them ; that being the 
only means in his power. Even this ofter they did not 
approve of, for humble as Miss Armour's siluaiion was, 
aiid great though her imprudence had been, she still, 
in the eyes of her partial pareucs, might look to a bet ' 
lerconnexioii than that with my friendless and unhap- 
py brother, at that time without house cr abiding 
place. Robert at length conseuied to their wishes : 
but his feelings on this occasion were of the most dis- 
tracting nat'jre : and the impression of sorrow was not 
efl'aced, till by a regular marriage they were indissolu- 
hly united. In the slate ofmind which this separation 
produced, he wished to leave the country as soon as pos- 
sible, and agreed with Dr. Douglns to go out to Jamai- 
ca as an assistant overseer ; or, as 1 believe it is called 
a bookkeeper, on his estate. As he had not sufficient 
money to pay his passage, and the vessel in wh c i 
Dr. Douglas was to procure a passage for him was not 
expected to sail for some time, Mr. i^amilton advised 
him to publish his poems ii; the mean time by subscrip- 
tion, as a likely way of gelling a little money, to pro 
vide him more liberally in necessaries for Jamaica. 
Agreeably to this advice, sub3cripiion bills were print- 
ed immediately, and the priming was ccmmeiiced at 
Kilmarnock, his preparations going on at the same 
time for his voyage. The reception, however which 
Ills poems met with in the world, and the friends they 
procured him, made him change his resoluiion of 
going to Jamaica, and he was advised to go F.din- 
burgh to publish a second edition. On his rttiirn, in 
happier circumstances, he renewed his connexion with 
Ml s. Burns, and rendered it permanent by a union for 
life. 

" Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured to give you a 
simple narrative of the leading circumstances in my 
brother's early life. The remaining part he spent in 
Kdmburgh, or in Dumfrieshire, and iis incidents are 
as well known to you as to me. his genius have pro- 
cuied him your patronage and friendship, this gave 
rise to the correspondence 'between you, in which, 
1 believe, his aentimenis were delivered with the 
most respectful, but most uuieserved confidence, and 
w.'-.ich oaly terminated with the last days ot bis life." 



This narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve as a com- 
meiuary on the preceeding sketch of our poets life by 
himself. It will be seen that the distraction of mind 
which he mentions (p, 13.) arose from the disiress and 
sorrow in which he liad involved his luture wile. The 
whole circumstances attending this connexion are cer- 
tainly of a very singular iiatuie.* 

The reader will perceive, from the foregoing nar- 
rative, how much the children of William Buines were 
indebted to their father, who was certainly a man 
of uncommon talents : though it does not appear that 
lie posesssed any portion of that vivid imagination for 
whicti the subjects of these memoirs was di.siinguished. 
In page 13, it is observed by our poet, that his father 
had an unaccountable antipathy to dancing schools, 
and that his attending one of these brought on biin his 
displeasure, and even dislike. On thts observation 

* In page 13, the poet mention.i his — " skulking from 
covert to covert, under the terror of a jail." The 
" ijack of the law" was " uncoupled at his heels," to 
oblige him to find secarilyfor tlie maintenance of his 
vwin children, whom he was not perni". ^^iti- 
lUate by amarrLiige with 'heir mother 



Gilbert has made the following remark, which ieein< 
entitled to implicit credit :— ■• 1 wonder how Rooert 
could attribute to our fatiier iliat lasting resentment o) 
his going to a dancing school against his win, ol which 
he was incapable. 1 believe ine truth was, that he, 
about this tune began to see ihe ilaiiiierons impeiuoguy 
ot my brother's passions as weii as his not being ame- 
nable to counsel, which often irritated my lamer; an(< 
which he would naturally think a dancing school wa» 
nothkely to correct. Bui he was proud of Robert » 
genius, which hebestowcd more expense in ciiluvanng 
than on the rest of the family, in tfie iiihtances ofsend 
ing to Ayr and Kirk-Oswald schools: and he was 
greatly delighted with his warmth of heart, and his 
conversational powers. He had indeed that dislike of 
dancini'-schools which Robert mentions : but so far 
overcame it during Robert's first month ofatleiulance, 
that he allowed all the rest of the larnilv that were tit 
for it to accompany him during the second month. 
Robert excelled in dancing, and was for some time die- 
tractedly fond of it." 

In the original letter to Dr. Moore.onr poet describ- 
ed his ancesiors as " renting lands of the noble Keiths 
ot Mansclial, and as having had ilie honour of sharing 
then late." " I do not." continues he. "use the 
word honour with any reference to political principles ; 
loyal and disloyal, \ take to be merely relative lerrris, 
in that ancient and formidable court, known in tins 
country by the name of Club-law, where the right is 
always with the strongest. But those who dare wel- 
come ruin, and shake hands with infamy, lor what 
they sincerely believe to be the cause of their God, or 
their king, are, as Mark Antony says in Shakespeare 
of brums and Cassiiis, honour ible men. 1 mention 
this circumstance because it threw my father on the 
world at large." 

This paragraph has been omitted in printing the let- 
ter, at the desire ot Gilbert Burns ; and it woiild have 
been unnecessary to have noticed it on the ))resent oc- 
casion, had not several manusciipl copies of that lelliT 
been in circulaiion. " i do not know," observes Gil- 
bert Burns, '-liow my brother could be misled in the 
accouni he has given of the Jacobifsm of his ancesioi s. 
—I believe the earl Marischa! forfeited his title and 
estate in 1715, before my father was born ; and among 
a collection of parish certificales in his possession, I 
have read one, stating that the bearer had no concern 
in the late wicked rbUlion.''' On the information of 
one, who knew William Burnes soon after he arrived 
in the county of Ayr, it may be mentioned, thaiaie- 
pori did prevail, that he liad taken the field with the 
youug Chevalier; a report which the certificate men- 
tioned by his son was, perhaps, intended to counteract. 
Strangers from the north, seltUng in the low country 
of Scotland, were in those days liable to suspicions of 
having been, in the familiar phrase of the connirv, 
"Out ill the forly-five," (1745) esi.ecially when ihe'y 
had any stateliness or reserve about them, as was the 
case with William Burnes. It may easilv be conceiv- 
ed, that our poet would cherish tlie'belief of his father's 
having been engaged in the daring enterprise of I rince 
Charles Edward. The generous attachment, the he- 
roic valour, and the final misfortunes of the adherents 
of the house of Stewart, tonclied with sympathy his 
youthful and ardent mind, and influenced his original 
political opinions.* 

* There is another observation of Gilbert Burns on 
his brother's narrative, in which some persons will be 
interested. It refers to where 4he the poet ipeaks of 
his youthful friends. "My brother," says Gilbert 
Burns, " seems to set off his early companions in too 
consequential a manner. The principal acquaintuncea 
we had in Ayr, while boys, were four sons of Mr. An- 
drew M'Culloch, a distant relation of myinoth«sr'», 
who kept a tea shop, and had made a little money in 
the contraband trade very common at that tim.e. He 
died while the boys were young, and my father v* 
nominated one of the tutors. The two eidaet wer* 
bred eiiopkeepers, the third a' biirg<'on antl ♦% 



18 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



The father of our poet is described by one who knew of a little straw, literally a tabernacls ot clay. In tbt* 

him towards the lauer end of his life, as above the com- ] mean cottage, of wiiich I myself was at limes an in- 



mon stature, thin and bent with labour. His counte- 
nance wa.s serious ami expressive, and the scanty locks 
on Ins head wi-re giay. lie was of a religious turn of 
muid, and, as is usual auiougtlie Scottish [jeasaiury, 
a good deal conversant in speculative llieuloi;. . 'I'lieie 
is :i: Gilbert's liamis a little manual of religious belief, 
Id '.he form of a dialogue between a lather and his son, 
composed liy him lor the use of his children, \\t which 
the benevolence of his heart seems to have led him to 
sofieu the rigid Calvinism of the Scoilish Church, into 
something approaching to Arminianism. he was a 
devout man-, and in the practice of calling his family 
lugeihei- to join in prayer. It is known that the exqin- 
site picture, drawn in stanzas xii. xiii. xiv. xv. xvi. 
and xviii. of the Cotl r's .'laliirdny Nigkl, represents 
William Burnes and his family at their evening devo- 
tions. 



ig as that which inhabited 
ruts, and parlicularlv of the 
aderwill perhaps be'wilhug 
;omu. What follows is giv- 
ledwithso much honour in 
rns, Mr. Murdurli, the pre- 
ina letter lo Joseph Cooper 
Walker, Ksq'. of Dublin, author of the i/isfor/t-i/ 
Memoirs of ike Irish Bard.<, and the Historic I Me- 
moirs of the Itaiuui Tragedy, thus expresses him- 



Of a family so inter 
the cottage of V\illiaji 
father "•' •'■ .r.ilv, ll 



the narrative of Ciilbe 
ceinor uf our poet, v 



■el 



'SIR, 

rthy fr 



lately fa 
le Kev. 



ired with a letter from ( 



lar 



iMv 



igKobeilbin 
,g at present 
is co-'Seque 



habitant, I really believe there dwelt a iarger p( 
of content than in any palace in Kurope. Tile Cot- 
ter's Sa:uTday Nish't will eive some idea of the tem- 
per and manners ijiat prevailed there. 

" In 17S5, about the middle of March, Mr. W. 
Bnnies came to Ayr, and sent lo ihe school where I 
was improving m wriling, under my good triend Mr. 
Robinson, desiring that I v;onld come and speak to 
him at a certain inn, and bring my wriling book with 
me. This was immediately com'plie.i with. HavuiB 
examined mv writing, he was pleased wiih it— (y-n. 
will readily allow he was not ilifhcull,) and told me 
that he had received very salistactory iidbrmation of 
Mr. Tennanl, l-he master of the Kngiish school, cmi- 
Cirnirig my improvement in Knglish, and his ir.etliod 
of teaching. In the month of May folUiwiug, I was 
engaged hy Mr. Bnrne?, and lour of his neishhonrs, to 
teach, and accorduifily begHii to leach the little bchuol 
at Allow-iv, which was situated a few \ards frcun the 
arKJIIaceoiis fahric above irieuiioned. My live employ- 
ers uiulertook to hoard me by turns, and to makeup & 
certain salary, at the end of ih-, year, jirovided my 
quarterly payments from the difl'erent pupils did not 
amount to that sum. 



I 



My pupil. Robe 
1 --^even vears ol a; 



and liairassiug, iny attenlu 

divided, and lain so little in the hauii ol expressing mv 
thoughts on paper, that al this distance of lime 1 cm 
give hut a Very imperfect sketch of the -.m ly part ol tlie 
life of thai cxtraordiuary^genius, w lU which alone I 
am acquainted. 

William Burne3, the father of ne poet, was born in 
llie shiiv, of Kincarden, and brej a gardener. I e hail 
been sealed in Ayishire ten or twelve years before I 
knew hiin.and had tieen in the .service of Mr. Craw- 
ford, of Uonnside. He was allerwards eaiployed as a 
gardener and overseer by 1 rovosl Kergnson of Doon- 
holm, ill the parish of Alloway, wliicli is now uinied 
wiih that of Ayr. In this parish, on the roadside, a 
Scotch mile aiid a half from the town of Ayr, and half 
a inile from the bridge of Doun, William IJuruesiook 
a (lit'ce 111 land, Consist ing ol ahoul Sr.ven acies ; part 

ofwhich he laid out in garden sjii d, and part ol 

which he kept to graze a cow, &c. slill coinumiug in 
the einplov of i rovosl Ferguson. Upon this liilU- f.uin 
was erected an hnmble dwelling, ofwhich Wilhain 
Burnes was the aichilect. It was, with the exception 

youiigesl, the only surviving one, was bred in a coiiiit- 
Ing-house in Glasgow, where he id now a respectable 
merchant. I believe all these boys went lo the West 
Indies. Then there were two sons of Dr. Malcolm, 
whom I have mentioned m my letter to Mrs. Dunlop. 
The eldest, a very worthy young man, went to the 
East Indies, where he had acominission in the army ; 
he IS liie person whose heart my brother says the Mu- 
ny Begun scen.^g could not corr vt. 'I'he other by 
the interest of Lady Wallace, got an ensigncy in a re- 
giment raised by the Duke of Hamilton, du' ing ihe 
American war. I believe neither of ihem are now 
(1797) alive. We also knew the present Dr. I aterson 
01 Ayr, and a younger brother of his n^nv in Jamaica i 
WHO were much younger than us. 1 had almost for- 
got lo mention Dr. Charles of Ayr, who wasa little 
otUer man my brother, and with whom we had a Ion 
gar ana closer iniimacy than with any of the olbcrs, 
vokco did uui.iujtWVver, couiiuuein slier life.' 



umled alilile 

.Iniif'.'andatn 
, dividm-wur 
, boiik, par.-mj 



coniinoiil\ 
ihe Nete T< 
prose and 



t Burns, was then betwepii six 
e ; his jireceptor about rii;liii-en. 

^ii-iish behue ihey were pui un- 
boih made a rapul progress in 
blepiogitss in writing. In read- 
wurils into svllahles bv lule, spelling witli- 
i>ing seiileiices, ^-c. Hoberl and Gilbert 
ly It tlie iippei end of the class, even when 
hoys by far their ocniois. The boi.ks must 
■e<i in the schoi.l were Ihe S/iflliig Book, 
lament, the Bible, Mason^a Co lection oj 
>erse, .md Fts'irr's Ei.glisit Oriintmar. 
I'hey ctimmitleil to memory the h\mns, aiidmher po- 
ems of that collect!. Ill, with iincomniun facility. This 
facility was partly owing to ihe metlu d pursued by 
their lather and me ill instruciiiig iliem, whiil. was to 
make them thoroiiyhly acquainted with the iiie;iiiing 
of every woni in each sen'ence that was to be commit- 
ted to memory. By the hy, this may be easier dune, 
and at an earlier period than is generally thought. 
As soon as Ihcy werecapable of ii, I taught ihem to 
1 urn verse into its iiatiii al pro-'e order; ^omeiimes 10 , 
substilnte synonymous exprcs-dmi..? lor poeiical woida 
andtusupply all the eliip-<es. These, yon know, ai- 
llie means i f knowing that the pupil iindcrsiaiids his 
iMiihm-. Tneseare exielleiil lu Ips 'o the awau-jment 
of words ill sentences, us well as to a variety ofexpjes 
stun. 

'■ Ci'.tevt always appeared lo me to possess a more 
lively iniiiginaijon. and to he more of the wit than Hu- 
bert.' I iitlnnpledio teach Ihrm a lif.le cinrch mil 
sic: hrrr they weie left far hehiiid by :ill ihe rest of 
the schci I. Koberrsear, in paittcular, wa-< remarka- 
bly dull and his voiceiiiitiinable. It was hmg hefuie 
I could gel them ti> dislingnish one tune from mioilicr. 
Robert's connt^-naiice was cenerally grave, and ex- 
pn-ssjvt-, of a serious, conlrmplntive, and ihoiiiilitlnl 
mind. Gill<ei r s i^ce said, Mi'lh, uilli l/ite I me'in to 
live ; iind certainly, if ai.y person knew the two brys, 
had biini asked which ol llieiii was m.^si likely loci. rt 
the iiuises, he W'itri surely never have guessed ihai 
Ruben had a --' pensily of that kind. 

" Ir ..c year 1780, Mr. Burnes quitled his mod 
edi^^c, and I'lok possession oi a farili (Mount Mil; 
piiani)of his own iinproviu?, while in the snvhe o. 
Prov.-:sl Ferguson. 'I'his farm being at a runsidcia- 
ble distance from the school, the hoys could in.i nt- 
lend reaularly ; and some chanses '.aking pince imioiig 
the other supporters of the schorl, I left it, having 
continued to conduct it for nearlv two years and 8 



" In the year ITT-"", 
caudidaies who wer 



'US .Tppninled (1 ain? one of fSve 
' irniucii) to leach ttit tii|^*b 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



19 



tenooi ai Ajnr ; and in 1773, Robert Burns came to 
board and lodge with rae, for the purpose of revisijig 
Ihe KiigUsh grammar, &c. that he might be beiier 
qualified to instruct his brothers and sisters at home. 
He was now with me day and night in school, at all 
meaU, and in all my walks. At the end of one week, I 
told him, that as he was now pretty much master ol 
tlie parts of speech, &c. I should like to teach him 
gomething of t'rench prouMncialion ; that when hz 
Bho'iid meet with the name of a French town, slii)), 
otficer, or tlie like, in the newspapers, he might be aiiie 
to pronounce it something like a French word. Robert 
was glad to hear this proposal, and immediately we 
mtacked the French with great courage. 

'* Now there was little else to be heard but the de- 
clension (if nouns, the conjuncljon of verbs, &c. When 
walking tusether, and even at meals, I was consianUy 
telling him the names of ditferent objects as they pre- 
senied themselves, in French; so that he was hourly 
laying in a stock of words, and sometimes iiiUe 
phrases. In short, he took such pleasure in learning, 
and I in teaching, that it was ilifficidt to say which of 
the two was most zealous in the business ; and alxnii 
tne end o. the second vfeek of our study of the French, 
we began to rend a little of the AdoeiiluTes of TeLema- 
c/iut, in Ferieion's own words. 

"But now the plains of Mount Oliphant began to 
■whiten, when Robert was summoned to relmquish the 
the jileasing scenes that surrounded the sroi to. of Ca- 
lypso ; and, armed with a sickle, to seek glory by sig- 
nalizing himself in the fields of Ceres — and so he did ; 
for altliough hut about tifteeii, 1 was told that he per- 
formed the work of a man. 

"Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, and 
ennseqnently agreeable companion, at the end of three 
weeks, one of which was spent entirely in the study ol 
Knglish, and the other two chiefly in lluit of French. 
1 did not. however, lose sight of him ; l)nt was a fre 
quent visitant at his father's house, when I had my 
hall holiday ; and very often went, accompauied Wilh 
one or two persons more intelligent than myself, thai 
goud William Burnes might e'ljoy a mental feast. — 
'I' he II the labouring oar was shifieil '.o some other hand. 
The father and the son sat down with us, when we 
enjoyed a conversation, wl-.erein solid reasoning, sen- 
sible remark, and a moderate seasoning of jocularity. 
Were so nicely blended as to render it palatable to all 
parties. Robert had a Inindre*! questions to ask me 
aoout the French, &c. ; and the fatlier, who had al 
ways rational mforination in view, had still some 
question to propose to my more learned friends, upon 
moral and natural philosophy, or some su:h interesting 
luliject. Mrs. Burues too was of the parly as much a.s 
possible ; 

'But still the house affai>"s would draw her thence, 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
She'd come again, and wilh a greedy ear, 
Devour up their discourse.' — 

and particularly that of her husband. Al all times, 
and in all companies, she listened to him with a more 
marked attention llian to any borly else. When under 
the necessity of being absent while he was speaking, 
she seemed to regret, as a real loss, that she had miss- 
ed what the good man had said. This worthy woman, 
Agnes Brown, had the most thorongli esteem fir her 
husband of any woman 1 ever knew. I can by no 
mear.s wonder thatshe highly esteemed him ; for I my- 
self have alwaysconsidered William Burnes as by tar 
the best of the human race that ever I had the pleasure 
of being acquainted with — and many a worthy charac- 
ter I have known. I can cheerfully join with Robert, 
in the last line of his epitaph (borrowed from Gold- 
Smith,) 

" And even his failings Ican'd to virtue's side." 

" He waatan excellent husband, if I mayjudge from 1 
his assiduous attention to the ease and comfort of his 
worlhj par'oier, aud from lier iiffecliouate beUaviour to 



him, as well as her unwearied atteation to the dutie* 
of a mother. 

" He was a tentler and aflectionate father ; he took 
pleasure in leading his children in the path of virLne ; 
not in driving them as scant pa:t-nIsdo, lo iiic |.eilorm- 
ance ofduties to which tlicy ilienisclvcs .are a v, i ,e He 
took care tu'lind laok but very seldom ; .,i„l ilieiefu.-, 
when he did rebuke, he was listened lo with n knol 
of reverential awe. A look ofdisa^.pi obatK n u as itii ; 
a reproof was severely so ; and a stripe «itli lUe I ,ii--, 
even on the skirt of the coal, gave heaiiltit pain, pi t.- 
duced a loud lamentation, and brought loi ih a liood of 
tears. 

" He had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will 
of those that were laTjourers under him. I think 1 
never saw him anjry hut twice ; the one iiine it whs 
with tlie foreman of the band, lor not rea|iiii2 the .hck* 
as he was desired ; and the other lime, il was wuli an 
old man for using smutty inueodoes and doable en -n- 
dres. Were every fnil nioinlied old man to receive a 
seasonable check in this way, n wonid he toiiie advan- 
tage of the rising generation. .As he was at no time 
overbearing to inferiors, he was equally incapaole of 
that passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, that imloces some 
jibople to ke p bcoiii^ rml bonins i.i the presence of & 
great man. lie always treated superiors with a be- 
coming respect: bin he never gave the smadesl en. 
coniaiemeol to arislocraiical arroiiaiice lini I must 
not pretend to give you a descripiion uf all the manly 
qiialiues, the rational and Chiistian virtues of the 
venerable William Burnes. 'I'lme would fail me. I 
shall only add, that he carefully practised every known 
duty, and avoided every thing thai was criminal ; or, 
in the apostle's wortls. Herein did he exe^fcise lirmseif 
in licins a life void of qfe 'Ce towccrds God and to- 
wards men. O for a world of men of such di.-iiosiiions ! 
We should then have no wars. I have ol'len wished, 
for the good of inankind, that u were as ciislomary to 
iionourand perpetuate the memory of those who excel 
in niofal rectitude, as it is toextol'what are called he- 
roic actions : then would the mausoleum of the friend 
of my youth overtop and surpass most of the raonu- 
raenls I see in Wesiminsier Abbey, 

"Although I cannot do justice to the character of 
this worthy man, yet you will perceive from these fe\r 
particulars, what kind of person had the principal 
education of our poet. He spoke ihe Knglish language 
with more propriety (both wiih respect to diction and 
proiumciation,) than any man I ever knew wiih no 
gieater advantages. This had ave.ygood eri'e,cl on 
the boys, who beganto talk, and leason hkemen, much 
sooner than their neighbours. 1 do not recollect any 
of their contemporaries, at my liltie seminary, who uf 
terwards made any great fiunre, as literary characters, 
except Dr. Tennant, who was chaplain to C:oloiiel 
Fnllarton's regiment, and who is now in tlieEa-t In- 
dies. He is a iryin ofgeuiusandlearning ; yet affable, 
and free from pedantry. 

"Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that he had 
over-rated Mount (Hipbant, and that he could not 
rear his numerous family upon it. .Alter heinx ihere 
some years, he removed to Lochlea. in the pa'nsh ot 
TarboUon, where, I believe, Robert wrote most of his 
poems. 

" But here. Sir, you will permit me to pause. ' cnii 
tell you but little more relative to our pr,et. i shall, 
however, in my next, send yon a copy of one of his let- 
ters to me. about the year 1783. I received one since, 
but it is mislaid. I lease remember me, in liie n-st 
manner, to my worthy friend Mr. Adair, when you ace 
him, nr write lo him. 

'■^ Harl street, Bloomshiiry-Square, 
London, li'eb. 22, 1199." 

As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was written a. a 

time when he was ignorant of the existence of the pre- 
ceding narrative of his brother, so this letter of Mr, 
Murdoch was written without his Having any kno^r- 
ledge that either of his pupils had been employed on 
the same subject. The liuee relations serve, there- 



'O 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



fore, not merely to illustrate, but to authenticate each 
other. Though the inrormation they convey might 
have been presenced within a shorter compass, by re- 
ducing the wliole into one unbroken narrative, it is 
scarcely to he do'joled, that tlie intelligent reader 
will be tar more gratified by a sight ol' these original 
documents lliemselves. 

Under the hiimhle roof of his parents, it appears in- 
deed that our poet had great advantages ; bni his op- 
porlunilies of information at school were more limiied 
as to Lime than they usually are among his coimtry- 
mtn in his condition of life ; and the acquisitions 
which he made, and the poetical talent which he ex- 
erted, under the pressure of early and incessant 
toil, and of inlerior, and perhaps scanty nutriment, 
testify at once the extraordinary force and activity of 
his nnnd. In his frame of botly he rose nearly to five 
feet ten inches, and assumed the proportions that in- 
dicate agdity as well as strength. In the various la- 
bours of the farm heexcelled all liis competitors. Gil- 
bert Burns declares that in mowing, the exercise ihut 
tires all the niosclts most severely. Robert was the 
only man, that at the end of a summer's day he was 
ever obliged to acknowledge as his master, liut thnugli 
onrpoetgave the jKiwers ol his body to the labours of 
the farm, he refused to bestow on them his thoughts or 
his cares. While the ploughshare under his guidance 
passed through the sward, or the grass fell under the 
sweep iif his scythe, he was himiining the songs of his 
country, musing on the deeds of ancient valour, or 
wrapt in tlie allusions of Fancy, as her enchantments 
rose on his view. Happi.y the Sunday is yet a 5>ab- 
bdth, on which man and beast rest from their labours. 
On this day, therefore, Burns could indulge iii a free 
intercourse wiih the charm.-< of nature. It was his de- 
light to wander alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose 
stream is now immortal, and to listen to the song ol 
the blackbird at the close of the summer's day. But 
Etill greater was his pltasure, as he himself informs us, 
in walking on the sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy 
winter day, and hearing the storm rave among the 
trees ; and more elevate<l still his delight, to ascend 
some eiriinence during i^ie agitations of nature ; to 
stride along its summit, while the lightning fiashed 
around him ; and amidst the bowlings of the tempest, 
«o apostrophize the spirit of the storm. Such .situa- 
tions he declares most favourable to devotion. — " Rapt 
in enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towards Him who 
to ilks on the wings of the winds.'" If other proofs 
Were wanting of tlie character of his genius, this 
might determine it. The heart of the poet is peculiar- 
ly awake to everv impression of beauty and suhlimity ; 
but, with the higher order of poets, the beautiful is less 
attractive than the sublime. 

The gayety of many •). Burns' writings, and the 
lively, and even cheerful colouring with which he r.as 
portrayed his own character, may lead some persons 
to suppose, that the melancholy which hung over him 
towards the end of his days was not an original pan 
of his constitution. It is not to be doubted, indeed, that 
this melancholy acquired a darker hue in the progress 
of his life ; but, independent of his own and of his 
brother's testimony, evidence is to be found among his 
papers, that he was subject very early to those de- 
pressions of mind, which are perhaps not wholly 
Separate from the sensibility of genius, but which in 
him rose to an uncommon degree. The following 
letter addressed to his father, will serve as a proof 
of this observation. It was written at the time when 
he was learning the business of a flax-dresser, and is 
dated, 

Irvine, December 27, 1731. 
" Honoured Sir — I have purposely delayed writing, 
in th? hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing 
you on New- Y^ear's day ; but work comes so hard up- 
on us, that I do not choose to be absent on that ac- 
r-uiint, as well as for some other little reasons, which I 
snail tell you at meeting. My health is nearly the 
»ame as when you were here, only my sleep is a Utile 
sounder; and, on the whole. I am rather better than 
riherwise, thonch I mend by very slow decrees. The 
wtiaknesi of roy Lerves has »o debilitated my mind, I 



1 that I dare neither review pa<t wants, nor look ft»r« 

ward into futurity ; for the least an;(iely or perturba- 
liou in my breast, produces most unhappy ctiecls on 
my whole frame. Sonjetiines, iruleed, when tor an 
hour or two my spirits are a little light,:iied, ! glimmer 
into futurity ; but my pnucipal, and indeed my on!/ 
pleasurable employment, is looking bacKward's and 
forwards in a mural and religious way. 1 am trans- 
ported at the thouglit, that ere long, very soon, I shall 
bid an eternal adieu to all the pains and uneasi- 
ness, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for 1 as- 
sure you I am hear'.ily tired of it ; and, if I do iioi 
very much deceive myself, I coultl contentedly and 
gladly resign it, 

' The soul, uneasy, and confin'd at home, 
Rests and expati-ites in a life to come.' 

"It is for this reason 1 am more pleased with tho 
15th, loth, and 17ih verses of the 7lh chapter of Reve- 
lations, than with any ten tunes as many verses in 
tlie whole Bible, and would not exchange the noblu 
enthusiasm with which they inspise me, for all that 
this world has to ofl'er.' As lor this worl.i, 1 despair 
of ever making a figure in it. I am not foj n.ed lor the 
bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of tlie gay. 1 sliali 
never again be capable of entering into such scenes. 
Indeed I am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of 
this life. 1 loresee that poverty and obscui ily jirob- 
auly await me. I am iu some measure pre)jared, 
and dally preparing to meet ihein. I have but jual 
time and paper to return you my grateful tbanks for 
the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, 
which were too much neglected at the time of giving 
theni, but wliich, 1 hojie, have been remembered ere 
it is yet too late, f-resenl my dutiful respects lo 
my mother, and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. 
Aluir ; and with wisiiing you a merry New-year's- 
day, I shall conciuOc. 1 am, honoured 6>ir, Your 
dutiful sou, 

"ROBERT BURNS." 

" P. S. My meal is nearly out ; but I am going to 
borrow, till 1 get more." 

This letter, written several years before the publica- 
tion of his poems, when Ins name was as obscure as.^iis 
condition was humble, displays the philosophic melaii> 
chuly which so generally lorms the poetical tempera- 
mem, and that buoyant and amhitious spirit which 
indicates a mind conscious of its strenglli. At Irvine, 
Burns, at this time possessed a single room for hi* 
lodging, rented perhaps at ine rate ol a shilling a week. 
Hejjassed his days m constant labour as a llax-dres*-- 
er, and Ins food consisted chiefly of oatmeal, sent o 
hif trom his father's family, 'i'he store of this hi; n- 
bk , .hoogh wholesome joiiriinent, 11 appears wao near- 
ly txhaujied, and he was about to borrow till he 
should obtain a supply. Vet even in this situation, 
his active imagination had formed lo itself pictures of 
eminence and distinction. Ins despair of making a 
figure in the world, slio^s how ardently he wished for 
honourable fame i and his contempt of hie founded on 
despair, is the genuine expression of a youllilui and 
generous mind. In such a state of reflic«ion, and of 
sulicnng, the imagination of Burns, naturally passed 
the dark buundari-s of our earthly hurizun, and rested 
on those beautiful representations of a better woi Id, 

* The verses of Scripture here alluded to, are as fol- 
lows : 

15. Therefore are they before the throne of God, 
and serve him day and night in his temple ; and he that 
sitleth on the throne shall dwell among them. 

16. They shall hunger no more, nilher thirst amf 
more ; neither shall the sun light on them, iior atijf 
heat. 

17. Por the Lamb vhick is in the midst of the 
thron';, shall feed them, and shall lead themjunto liuiug 
fountains of waters; and God shall wipe away all 
tears from their eyes. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



21 



Vfaere there U neither thirst, nor hunger, nor sorrow ; 
find where happiness stiall be in pruportioa to the 
capacity of happiness. 

Such a ('.isposition is far from being at variance with 
social eiijoyineiiis. 'J'iiose who have studied the affin- 
ities of nund, know tlial a melanclioly of tliis descrip- 
tion, alter a while, seeks relief in the endvarments of 
socieiy, and thai it has no distant connexion with the 
flow of cheerluliiess, or even the extravagance of 
mirth. It was a tew days after (he writing of this 
letter that our poet, "in giving a welcome carousal 
to the new year, with his gay companions," suffered 
his flax to catcli fire, and his shop to be consumed to 
ashes. 

The energy of Burn's mind was not exhausted by 
his daily labours, the eflusion of his muse, his social 
measures, or his solitary meditations. Some time pre- 
vious to his engagement as a flax-dresser, having 
heard that a debating-club had been established in 
Ayr, he resolved to try how such a meeting would 
succeed in the village of Taiboiton. About the end of 
the year 178U, our pott, his brother, and five other 
youiig peasants of the neighbourhood, formed them- 
selves into a society of this sort, the declared objects 
of which were to relax themselves after toil, to pro 
mote sociality and friendship, and to injprove the 
mind. 'I'he laws and regulations were furnished by 
Burns. The members were to meet after the labours 
of I he day wer-e over, once a week, in a small ijiiblic 
house \n the village ; where each should ofler his 
opinion on a given question or subject, supporiing it 
by such arguments as he thought proper. The de- 
bate was to be conducted with order and decorum ; 
Bird after it was finished, the members were to choose 
a subject for discussion at the ens'.ng meeting. The 
•um expended by each was not t' exceed threepence ; 
and, with the humble potation .iat this could procure, 
they were to toast their mi .1 esses, and to cultivate 
friendship with each othe- . This socieiy continued 
its meetings regularly for some time ; and in the 
autumn of 1782, wishing to preserve some account of 
their proceedings, they purchased a book into which 
their laws and regulations were copied, with a pre- 
amble, containing a short history of their U'ansactions 
down to that period. This curious document, which 
is evidently the work of our poet, has been discovered, 
and it deserves a place in his memoii-s. 

" History oflh; Rise, Proceedinss, and Regulations 
of tke Bachelor's Club. 

" Of birth or blood we dc not boast, 
Nor gentry does our club afioi-d ; 

But Ploughmen and mechan?:;s we 
In Nature's simple dress record." 

" As the great end of human society is to become 
wiser and better, this ought therefore to be the prin- 
cipal view of every man in every station of life. But 
as experience has taught us that such studies as in- 
form the head and mend the heart, wnen long con- 
tinued, are apt to exhaust the faculties of the mind, it 
ha-, beenfound p'-oper to relieve and unbend the mind 
by some employment or another, that may be agree- 
able enough to keep its power-s in exercise, but at the 
same lime not so serious as to exhaust them. But, 
superadded to this, by far the greater part of mankind 
aie under the necessity of earnins the S'/stemnce of 
human life by Ih". labours of th ir bodies, whereby, 
not only ihe faculties of the rnind, but the nerves and 
sinews of ilie body, are so fatigued, that it is abso- 
lutely necessary to have I'ecourse to some amusement 
or divci-sioii, In relieve the wearied man, worn down 
wiih the necessaiy labours of lile. 

" As iho best of things, however, have been pervert- 
ed in the v^oisi of purposes, so, under the pretence of 
amusement and diversion, men have plunged into all 
the madness of riot and dissipation ; and, instead of 
attending to the grand design of human life, they have 
begun with extravagance and fo.ly, and ended with 
guilt and wretchedness. Impressed with these con- 
•i'lerations, we, the ''oUowing ladi in the parish of 



Tarbolton, viz. Hugh Reid, Robert Burns, Gilbert 
Burns, Alexander Brown, Walter Mitchell, Thomaa 
Wright, and "William M'Gavin, resolved, for our mu- 
tual entertainment, to unite ourselves into a cluo, or 
socieiy, under such rules and regulations, that while 
we should forget our cares and iat^ours in mirth and 
diver-siou, we might not transgress the bounds of inno- 
nocence and decorum ; and after agreeing on tr.ese, 
and some other regulations, we held our first meeting 
at Tarbolton, in the house of John Richard, upon the 
evening of the lUh of November, 1780, commonly 
called Hallowe'en, and afler choosing Robert Burns 
president for the night, we proceeded to debate on thu 
question — Suppose a young man, bred a firmer, but 
without any Jortunt, had it in his power In many tj. 
ther of two women, the one a girl of larg<: forlu.ie, 
but neither ha?tdsome inperson, nor ngreeiible in con- 
versation, but who can manage the household nffairs 
of a farm well enough ; the other of thcTn a girl every 
way agreeable in person, conver's'itiO'i, and behav- 
iour, but without any fortune : which of thtm shall he 
choose ! Finding ourselves very happy in oursociety, 
We resolved to continue to meet once a monlh in the 
same house, in the way and manner proposed, and 
shortly thereafter we cliose Robert Ritchie for another 
member. In May, 1781, we brought in David Sillar,' 
and in June, Adam Jamasoii, as members. About the 
beginnuig of the year 1782, we admitted Matthew 
latterson, and John Orr, and in June followingwe 
chose James Patterson as a proper brother for such a 
society. The club being thus increased, we resolved 
to meet at 'I'arbolton on the race night, the July fol- 
lowing, and have t d:ince in honour of our society. 
Accordingly we did meet, each one with a partner, and 
spent the evening in such innocence and merriment, 
such cheerfulness andgood humour, that every brother 
will long remember it with pleasure and delight." 
To this preamble are subjoiued the rules and regula- 
tions." t 

The philosophical mind will dwell with interest and 
pleasure, on an iusiiiuiion that combined so skilfully 
the means of instrucLion and of happiness, and if 
grandeur look down with a smile lui these simple an- 
nals, let us trust that it will be a smile of benevolence 
and approbation. It is wiih regret ihat the sequel of 
the history of the Bachelor's Club of Tarbolton must 
be told, it survived several years after our poet re- 
moved from Ayr-shire, but no longer sustained by his 
talents, or cemented by his social ali'ections its meet- 
ings lost much of their attraction ; and at length, in 
an evil hour, disseiition arising amongst us rnember-s. 
the instilutioir was given up, and the records curnniit- 
ted to the flames. Happily the preamble and the re- 
gulations were spared ; and as matter of instruction 
and of example, they are transmitted to posterity. 



After the family ofour bard removed from Tarbolton 
to the neighbourhood of Mauchline, he and his bi-other 
were requested to assist in forming a similar institution 
there. The regulations of the club at Mauchline were 
nearly the same as those of the club at Tarbokon • 
but one laudable alteration was made. The fines foi 
non-attendance had at Tarlton been spent in enlai-g- 
mg their scanty potations ; at Mauchline it was fixe,;, 
that the money so arising, should be set aparl for the 
purchase of books, and the first work procured in this 
manner was the Mirror, the separate number's of 
which wei-e at that time recently collected and pub 
lished in volumes. After it, followed a number of 
oiher works, chiefly of the same nature and among 
thcce the Loungr. The society of Mauchline still 
subsists, and appeared in the list of suboCi'ibers to the 
first edition of the works of its celebrated associate. 

The members of these two societies, were originally 
all yuuiig men from ihe coiinti y, and chiefly sons cl 
farmers; a description of persons, in tha 0|)iuion of 
our poet, more agreeable in theirmanners, more vir- 

* The person to whom Burns addressea his Epistlt 
to Davie, a brother pott. 

t For which see Appendix, No. II, Note C. 



22 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



tuous in theli conduct, and more susceptible of im- 
provement, than the selt-suiiiciem mecliamcs of coun- 
II y towns. With deference lu the coiiversHtioii society 
>ji Mauchline, it may be doubted, wheilier the books 
U'liich tliey purchased were of a kind best adapted to 
[■rjm.ile the i.aerest and happiness of persnris in this 
smiitioji oflile. 'I'he iWinora^nd iheLo.ng.r, though 
works of great merit, may he s.ud, on a t^eaerul view 
of tlicir contents, to be less calciihiled to increase the 
knowledge, ilia.i to refine tlie taste ol' tliuse who read 
liiem; and to this last object, their mwraiity itself, 
which is, however, always pei'fectly pure, may be 
considered as subordinate. As works of taste, they 
deserve gruat ijraise. They are, indeed, refined to a 
liigh desree of delicacy ; and to this circumstance it is 
perhaps owing, tirat they exliibit little or nothing of 
the pecnhar manners of the age or country in which 
they were produced. But delicacy of taste, though 
tiie source ol many pleasures, is not without some dis- 
advantages; and to render it dcsirafcle, the possessor 
should perhaps in all cases be raised above the neces- 
pily of iiodily labour, unless, indeed, we should include 
Under this lerm tlie exercise of the imitative arts, over 
which, taste iniinidiately presides. Delicacy ol taste 
may be a blessing to him who has tlie disposal of his 
own time, and who can cnoose what book he shall 
read, ol what diversion lie shall [wrtake, and what 
company he shall keep. 'I'o intn so situated, the cul- 
tivation ot taste alTords a grateful occupation in itself, 
and opens a path to many other gratifications, 'i'o 
men of genius, in the possession of opulence and leis- 
ure, the cultivation of the taste may be said to be es- 
ieiitial ; »ince it afi'urds employment to those faculties, 
whicii without employment would destroy the happi 
nesjof the posse.-'sor, and corrects that morbid seiisi 
bility, or, to use the expressions of Mr. Hume, that 
ilelicacy of passion, which is the bane of the tempera- 
ment of genius. Happy had it been for our bard, after 
he emerged from the condition of a peasant, had the 
delicacy of his taste equalVed the sensibility of his pas- 
• ions, regulating all the efl'usions of liis muse, and 
presiding over all his social enjoyments. But to the 
ihoiisands who share the original condition of Burns, 
and who are doomed to pass their lives in the station 
in whj'.vil they were born, ilelicacy of taste, were it even 
of e.isy ail-aininenl, would, if not a positive evil, he 
at least a iloubtful blessing. Delicacy of taste may 
make many necessary labours irksome or disgusting ; 
and should it render the cultivator of the soil iinliappy 
ill his siiualion.it presents no means by which that 
sitnaiion may be improved. 'I'aste and literature, 
which dirtuse so many charms throughout society, 
whicli sometimes secure to their votaries distinction 
while living, and which still more Irequenlly obtain 
fir them posthumous fame, seldom procure opulence, 
or even independence, when cultivated with the ut- 
most attention ; and can scarcely be pursued with ad- 
vantage hy the peasant in the short intervals of leisure 
which his occuiiations allow. Those who raise them- 
selves from the condition of daily labour, are iiauallv 
men who excel in the practice of some useful art, or 
who join liabiis of industry and sobriety to an ac- 
quaintance with some of the more common branches of 
knowledge. 'i"he penmaiiihip of Butterworth, and 
the arithmetic of Cocker, may be studied by men in 
the humblest walks of life : and they will assist the 
peasant more in the pursuit of independence, than the 
study of. Homer or of Shakspeare, though he could 
comprehend, and even imitate the beauties of those 
immortal bards. 

These observations are not offered without some 
portion of doubt and hesitation. The subject hag 
many relations, and would justify an ample discussion. 
It may be observed, on the other hand, that the first 
step to improvement is to awaken the desire of im- 
provement, and that this will be most effectually done 
by such reading^s interests the heart and excites the 
imagination. The greater part of the sacred v/ritings I 
llieinseives, which in Scotland are more especially the 
manual of the poor, come under this description, it 
may be farther observed, that every human being, is 
the proper judge of his own happiness, and within the 
path of innocence, ought to be permitted to pursue it. 
Hiuco i: IS the taste of the Scottish petiKaatry to give a 



. preierence to works of taste and of fancj,* It may tm 

presumed they find a superior graiilicaiion in the peru- 
sal of such works ; and it may be added, that it is of 
! more consequence they should be made happv in their 
original condiiion, iban furnished with the n'.tans, or 
Willi the desire ol rising above it. Such consideraiioin 
are doubtless of much weight ; nevertheless, tlie pre- 
vious reflections may deserve lube e:xamiued, and lien 
we shall leave the subject. 

Though the records of the society at Tarbolton are 
lost, and those of the society at Maochliiie have not 
been traiisiiiitted, yet we may salely artirm, that our 
jjoel was a distiiigiiislied member of both these asso- 
ciations, which Were well calculated lo excite and lo 
develop the powers of His mind. From seven lo twelve 
persons constituted the society of 'I'arbolton, and such 
a number is bestsuited to the purposes of infonnataSii. 
"Where this is the object of these societies, the number 
should be such, that each person mav ha>e an oppor- 
tunity of imparling his seiiliinenls,as wellasol rcCbiv- 
ing those of oihers ; and llie powers of private conver- 
s-ition are to be employed, not those ol public debate. 
A limited society of ibis kind, where the subject ol con- 
versation is lixed beforehand, so that each member may 
revolve it previously in his mind, is perhaps oneof ihe 
happiest contrivances hitherto discovered lorshorien- 
iiig ihe acquisition of knowledge, and hasleiiing the 
evoluiloii of talents. Sucii an association lequiiss in- 
deed somewhat more of regulation than ihe rules of 
politeness establish in ccinmon conversation '; or rather 
perhaps, ii requires thai the rules of politeness, which 
ill animated conversation are liable to perpetual viola- 
tion, slijuld be vigorously enforced. Tlie order of 
speech established in the club at Taibolion, appears to 
have been more regular than was required in so small 
a society ;t where all that is necessary seems to be the 
fixing on a member lo wliom every speaker shall ad- 
dress himsell, and who shall in return secure the speak- 
er from interruption. Conversation, which among men 
whom intimacy and friendship have relieved from re- 
serve and restraint, is liable, when leli to itself, lo no 
many inequalities, and which, as it becomes rapid, so 
often diverg'^s into separate and collateral branches, 
in which it is dissipated and lost, being kept within iu 
channel by a simple limitaiioii of tins Kind which prac- 
tice renders easy and familiar, flows along in one full 
stream, and becomes smoother, and clearer, and deep- 
er, as itflows. Iimayalso be observed, that in this 
way the acquisition of knowledge becomes more plea- 
sant and more easy, from '.he gradual improvement of 
the faculty employed lo convey it. Though some at- 
tention has been paid lo the eloquence of the senate and 
the bar, which in this, as in all other freegovernments, 
is productive ef so much influence to the lew who excel 
in It, yet little regard has been paid lo the humbler ex- 
ercise of speech in private conveijatioii ; an art thai is 
of consequence to every description of persons under- 
every form of government, and on which eloquence ot 
every kind ouglit perhaps lo be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elocution, a dis- 
tinct utterance, is the oiispriiig of much time' and of 
long practice. Children aie always defective in clear 
articulation, and so are young people, though in a less 
degree. What is called slurring in siieech, prevaiU 
with some persons through life, especially in those 
who are taciturn. Artlcnlalion does iwt seem to reach 
its utmost degree of distinctness in men befora ihe ag* 
of I weniy , or upwards ; in women it reacnes this point 
somewhat earlier. Female occnpalicns require n:iicki 
use of spi;ech because they are Unties in detail. Be- 
sides, their occupations being generally sedenlitry, the 
respiration is lell at liberty. Their nerves being more 
delicate, their sensibility as well as fancy is more live- 
ly ; the ualural consequence of which is, a more Ire- 

* In several lists of book-societies among the poorer 
classes in Scotland which the editor has seen, works Ot 
this description form a great part. These Bocieti& 
are by no means general, and it is not supposed tba 
they are increasing at present. 

t See Appendix, No. II. Note C. 



T.IE LIFE OF BURNS. 



23 



mu»at uttrrsnce of thought, a greater fluency of speech, 
»n<J ii di»'.i«ci ai-liculaiioii .Man eaiUer age. tlui. in 
»«» who have not miuglrd early and familiarly with 
toe woi Id, though rich [lerhaps in knowledge, and clear 
In apprehension, it is oUen paiiilul to observe ilie diffi- 
euily vrUh which their ideas are cnnimunicaLed by 
»l(H-;'^r., through tlie want ol' lliose hahils that C'luieci 
r.iougnts, woids, and sonndj together ; which, when 
e5!,ac):slied, seein as il'they had aiisen spontaneously, 
but wliicii, in iruth, are the result of long and pan-.Ud 
priiciice; aur| when analyzed, exhibit the plieuomeua 
i>i most curious and coiaplicated association. 

Societies then, such as we have been describing, 
■while they m^y be said to put each member in posses- 
lion of the l<iio'wled^e of all the rest, improve the pow- 
ers of utterance ; and bv the collision of opinion, ex- 
ciie the faculties of reason and reflection. 'I'o those 
who wish to improve their minds in such intervals of 
l.ioouras the condition ol a peasant allows, this method 
ofabhrevia.ing instruction, niay, under proper regula- 
lious, be highly useful. To the student, whose opinions, 
Sljringiijg out of solitary observation and meditation, 
are seldom in the first instance correct, and which 
have, notwithstanding, while conliiied to himself, an 
increasing teiidei.cy to assume in his own eye the cha- 
racter ol demonstrations, an association of this kind, 
where they may be examined as they arise, is of the ut- 
nti.'ii importance ; since it may prevent those illiisicns 
of imagination, by which genius being bewildered, 
fcciei'Ce IS often deliased, and error propagated through 
Bucctssive generations. And to men who have culli- 
*'aiea letters, or general science in the course of their 
e.tncati-in, iiut who are engaged in the active occupa- 
tions of life, and no longer able to devote to study or 
to hooks the time requisite I'nr improving or preserving 
llieir acqtiiaitioiis, associations of this kind, where the 
mind may urbv.'nd from its usual cares in discussions 
o! liierature or science, afford the most pleasing, the 
most useful, and the most rational of gratifications.' 

\Vhether in the humble societies of which he was a 
ineiTlber, Burns aci^uiied m';oh direct information, 
may perhaps be qiiestioned. It cannot however be 
(ioubte'l, liiat by collision, the faculties of his mind 
would be excited ■ that by practice iiis habits of enun- 
ciation would be establislied ; and thus we have some 
explanation of llnrt early command of words and of ex- 
pression which ennabled him to pour forth his thoughts 
in language not nnwonhy of his genius, and which of 
all his enilowments, seemed, on his appearance in Ed-, 
inhurghjlhe most extraordinary .t for associations j 

* When letters and philosophy were cultivated in 
ancient Greece, the press had not multiplied the tab- 
lets of learning and science, and necessity produced 
the habit of studying as it were in common. Poets 
were found reciting their own verses in public assem- 
blies ; in public schools only philosophers delivered 
theirspeculations. The taste of the hearers, the in- 
genuity of the scholars, were employed in appreciating 
and examining the wcrks of fancy and of speculation 
submitted to their cansideration, and the irrevocable 
words were not given to the world before the composi- 
tion, as well IS the sentiments, were again and again I 
retouched and imjjroved. Death alone put the last 
seal on the labours of genius. |-lence, perhaps, maybe 
in part explained the extraordinary art and skill with 
which the inonumenls of (jrecian literature that re- 
mains to us, appear to have been constructed. 

+ It appears that our Poet made more preparation 
than alight be supposed, for the discussion of the soci- 
ety of Tarboltoa. There were found some detached 
memoranda, evidently prepared tor these meetings ; 
and, amongst other*, the heads of a speech on the ques- 
tion mentioned in p. 21, in which, as might be expect- 
ed, lit lakes the im/jrudeiit iido uf the quesliuo. 'I'he 



of a literary nature, our jjoet erquired » conslderablt 
relish ; and happy had it been toi luni, ut'ter he emerc- 
ed from the condition of a pe«SHnl, if lo, tune hail per- 
mit led him to enjoy them in thedeeret of which he 'wa» 
capable, so as to have lortilied his iiriiiciples of viriiie 
by the puriticatioii of his tasLe ; and given to Uu: ener- 
gies of his mind hiibits of exertion that might have 
excluded other associations, in which it must he ac- 
knowledged they were too often wasted, as well as de- 
based. 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; but the hanks of 
that river, as it bends to the eastward above Manch- 
line, are singularly beautiful, and tr,f*- were frequent- 
ed, as may be imagined, by our poet :ii hir, solitary 
walks. Here the muse often visited h'.m. In one of 
these wanderings, he met among the woods a celehia- 
ted beauty of the west of Scotland : a lady, of whom it 
is said, that the charms of her person correspond 
with the character of her mind. 'J'his incident gave 
rise, as might he expected, to a poem, of which an ac 
count will be found in the following letter, to which he 
inclosed it to the object of his inspiration : 

To Miss 



Mossgiel, VM Novmher^ 1736. 
"Matlam, — Poets are such outre beings, so much 
the children of wayward fancy and capricious whim, 
that 1 believe the world generally alows them a larger 
latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sobei sons 
of judgment and prudence. 1 mention this as ait 
apology for the liberties that a nameless stranger has 
taken with you in the inclosed poem, which he begs 
leave to present you vkiih. Whether it has poetical 
merit anyway worthy of the theme, 1 am not the 
proper judge; but it is the best my abilities can pro- 
duce ; and, what to a good heart will perl.aps be a su- 
perior grace, it is equally sincere atid as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken from real life, 
though 1 dare say, IVIadam, you Ao not recollect it, as 
1 believe you scarcely noticed the poetic reviur as he 
wandered hv you. I had roved out as chance direct 
ed, ill the favorite haunts of my muse on the banks ot 
the Ayr, to view nature in all the guyely of the vernal 
year. The evening sun was tlaining over the dii- 
taiit western lulls; not a breath stirred the crim- 
son opening blossom, or the verdant spreading leat. — 
It was a golden momem for a poetic heart. 1 listened 
to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on 
every hand, with a congenial kimlred regard, and' fre- 
quently turned out of my path, lest 1 should disturb 
their little songs, or frighten them to another station. 
Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed 
who, regardless of your harmonious endeavours 10 
please him, can eye your elusive llights to discover 
your secret recesses, and to rob you and all the proper- 
ty nature gives you, your dearest coi:riforts, your help- 
le » iiOstlini;s. Kven the hoary hawthorn twig that 
shot- across the way, what heart at such a time hut 
must have been interested in its welfare, and wished il 
preserved li om the rudely browsing cattle, or tiie 
withering eastern blast.-' Such, was the scene — and 
such the hour, when, in a corner of my prospect, I 
spied one of the fairest pieces of Nature's woi kiniin- 
ship that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a 

following may serve as a farther specimen on the ques- 
tions debated in the society at Tarboltcn: — Whether 
do we derive more happiness from love or Jriei.dsh ij) ? 
Whether ieiWcen friends , wh.i huot no reason to aoubt 
each other'' s friendship, there should bn r.iny reserve ? 
Whether is the savage man, or thep.usant of a civili^ 
zed couiUi-y, in the most happy sitiialion ! — Whtllier 
is a young man in the lower ra,iks of life likeliest to 
be happy, who has got a good education, and his mint 
well informed, or he who has just the education ami tf» 
fomiation of those around him! 



24 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



(loet'a eye : those visionary banls excepted who hold 
coniraerce with aerial beings! had L'aliiiniiy and 
Vilhaiiy taken my walk, they had at tl 
Bwora eienial pe*icewilh such an object. 



" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! 
have raised plain, dull, liisioiic prose into 
and measure. 



It would 
netaphor 



" The enclosed song* was the work of my return 
home ; and perhaps it but poorly answers what might 
have been expected from such a scene. 



I have the honour to be, Madam, 
Your most obedient, 

and verv humble servant, 

"ROBERT BURNS. 



Tn the manuscript book in which 
counted this incident, ar.d into vvl 
poem are copied, he complains thai 
reply to his etl'usiuns. and this appe 
ed his self-love. It is not, howeve 
an excuse for her silerice. Burns 
little known ; and where I 



poet has re 
liich the letter an( 
t the la.ly made n( 
;ars to have wound 
er, dithculi to find 
; was at that tim( 
at all, noted rathei 



for the wild strength of his humour, than for those 
Btrauis of tenderness in wiiicli he afterwards so much 
excelled. To the l.idy heiself Ins name had perhaps 
never been meutionefl, and of such a poem she mi^hl 
not consider herself as the proper juilge. Her modes 
ty might prevent her from perceiving that the muse of 
Tibidlus breathed in ihis nameless poei, and that her 
beauty was awakening stiains destined to immortali 
ty, on the bank of the Ayr. It may be conceived, al 
«o, thai supp'iBJng the verse duly appreciated, delica- 
cy miglii find it difficult to express its ackr-owledge- 
ments. Tne fervent imagination of the rustic bard 
pijsses-ed more of lenderne^ii thnn of respect. Instead 
of raising himself to the condition of the object of 
admiraiion, he pre^umedto reduce her lohisown, and 
sirani this high-born heaiily to his daring 
is true, Unrns might have foun<l precedents lor such 
fieedom uni.ing the poets of Greece and Rome, and in- 
deed of every country. And it is not to be denied, 
that lovely women have generally submitted to this 
Hurt of profaiiation with patience, and even with good 
Imnioiir. 'Vo what purpose is it to repine at a misfor- 
tune wiiich is the necessary consequence of their own 
charms, or to remonstrate with a descrijitiou of mtn 
who are incapable of control .' 

" The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
Are of imniagination all compact." 

It may be easily presumed, that the beautiful nymph 
of Ballocliinyle, whoever she may have been, did 
not reject with scorn the adorations of our poet, though 
the received thera with silent modesty and dignified re- 
serve. 

The sensibility of our bard's temper, and the force 
of his imaginal ion, exposed him in a particular manner 
lo the impressions of beauty : and these qualities, unit- 
ed to his impassioned eloquence, gave in turn a power- 
ful influence over the female heart. 'l"he Banks of the 
Ayr Ibrmed the scene of youthful passions of a still 
tenderer luiliire, the history of which it would be im- 
pr..per to reveal, were it even in our power ; and the 
traces of which will soou be discoverable only in those 
Btrmiis of nature and sensibdily to which they gave 
birth. The song entitled Hi^'ii'ind Mary, is known 
lo relate to one of these attachments, "itwas writ- 
tei'.," says our bard, " on one of the most interesting 
passigts of my youthful days." The object of this 
passion died in e;uly life, and the impression left on 
the mind of Burns seems to have been deep and last- 
in,?. S. veral years afttrwaids, when he was removed 
to Niihsdale, he gave vent lo the sensibility of his rec- 
elleQiions in that impassioned poem, wnich is address- 
ed To Mary, in HeaviM I 



Tile song entitled the Lass of Ballochmyle. 



To the delineat.ons of the poet by hlnaself, or at* 

brother, and by his iniot, these addUiitns are iiecesui- 
ry, in order that the leader may see his character tn 
its various aspects, and may have an opportunity of 
forming a just notion of the variety, as well as ot the 
power ol his original genius.' 

• The history of the poems formerly printed, wil 
be found in the Appendix to this volume. It is in- 
serted in the words of Gilbert Burns, who, in a letter 
addressed to the Editor, has given the following ac- 
coiint of the friends which Robert's talents procured 
him before he left Ayrshire, or attractea the notice oi 
the world. 

" The farm of Moasgiel, at the time of our coming to 
it, (Martinmas, 1783,) was the property of the Earl of 
Loudon, but was held in tack by Mr. Gavin Hamilton, 
writer in Mauchliiie, from whom we had our bargain • 
I who had thus an opportunity of knowing, and showing 
a sincere regard for my brother, before he knew that 
he was a poet, 'i'he poet's estimation of him, and the 
strong outlines of his character, may be collected from 
the deilication to this gentleman. When the publica- 
tion was begun, Mr. H. entered very warmly into its 
interes'ts, and promoted the subscription very exten- 
sively. Mr. Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, is a man of 
worth and taste, of warm affections, and connected 
with a most respectable circle of friends and relations. 
It is to this gentleman The CoUer's Saturday Night is 
inscribed. The poems of my brother which 1 have for- 
merly mentioned, no sooner came into his hands, than 
they were quickly known, and well received in the ex- 
tensive circle of Mr. Aikin's friends, which gave them 
a sort of currency, necessary in this wise world, even 
for the good reception of things valuable in themselves. 
But Mr. Aiken not only admired the poet ; as soon ua 
he became acquainted with him, he showed the warm- 
est regard forthe man, and did everything in his power 
to forward his interest and respectability. The Epistle 
to a Young Friend was addressed to this gentleman's 
son, Mr. A. H. Aiken, now of Liverpool. He was the 
the oldestof a young family, who were taught to receive 
my brother with respect, as a man of genius, and their 
father's friend. 

" TTie Brigs of Ayr is inscribed to John Ballentine, 
Esq. banker in Ayr; one of those gentlemen to whom 
my brother was introduced by Mr. Aiken. He inter- 
ested himself very warmly in my brother's concerns, 
and constantly showed the greatest friendship and at- 
tachment to him. When the Kilmirnock edition was 
all sold oft", and a considerable demand pointed out the 
propriety of publishing a second edition, Mr. Wilson, 
who had printed the first, was asked if he would print 
the second, and take his chance of being paid from the 
first sale. This he declined, and when this came to 
Mr. Ballunline's knowledge, 1 e generously offered to 
accommodate Robert with what money he might need 
for that purpose ; but advised him to go to Edinburgh, 
as the fittest place for publishing. When he did go to 
Edinburgh, his friends advised him to publish again bj 
subscrl|ition, so that he did not need lo accept the otter 
Mr. William 1 arker, merchant in Kilmarnock was a 
subscriber for thirty-five copies of the Kilmarnock edi- 
tion. This may perhaps appear not deserving of no 
ticehere ; but if the comparative obscurity of the poe*. 



THK LIFE OF BURNS. 



9t» 



W# »!»»• dwelt itie longer on the early part of hit 
.■i«, rievi.use 11 IS lilt leasi kci.jwn ; and lieeause, as 
ttu- «i>-eady lieen ni.'iitioned, liiispart of his history is 
eo-iii^cleil with some viuws of the coiulitiuii and man- 
iieiN . I ihc luiiiililesl ranks of society, hitherto little i)h 
•ei veil, ami which willj.erhaps he found neither useless 
•or uiiuiteresting. 

Ahoin the lime of his leaving his native country, his 
corrusiioiiilence commences ; and in the series of let- 
ters now 2iven to the world, the chief incidents of the 
remHinijia pan of his life wdl ne loimd. This anlhen- 
:ic, though melancholy record, will supercede iu future 
tiie necessity of any extended narrative. 

Burns set oul for Kdinhurgh in the month of Novem- 
ber, 17S6. He was fiirnisheil with a letter of inlro- 
(laciion to Dr. Blacklock, from a gentleman to whom 
the Ooclor had addressed the letter which is represent- 
ed by our l\ard as the immediate cause of his visiting 
the Scottish metropolis. He was acquainted wiih Mr. 
Stewart, : rofessor of Moral l-hilosophy in the univer 
•ity , and had been entertained by thai gentleman at 
Crttnne, his estatp ill Ayrshire. He had been intro- 
diiceii by Mr. Alexander Dalzel lo the earl of Glen- 
cairn, who had expressed his hi|;h approbtlion of his 
poetical talent. He had friends therefore vho cpuld 
introduce him into the circles of literature as well as 
fashion, and his own manners and appearance exceed- 
ril every expectation that could have be-n formed of 
them, he soon became an object of general curiosity 
and a.'.miration. The following circumstance con- 
tributed to this iu a considerable degree.— At the time 
when Burns arrived in Edinburgh, the periodical pa- 

(.t this period, be taken into consideration,- it appears 
lo me a greater effort of generosity, than many things 
which appear more biilliant in my brother's future 
history. 

" Mr. Robert Muir, merchant in Kilmarnock, was 
one of those friends Robert's poetry had procured him, 
anil one who was dear to his heart. This gentleman 
i«d no very great fortune, or a long line of dignifi- 
•i ancestry : but what Robert says uf Captain Mat- 
thew Henderson, might be said of him with great 
piopriety, lk.nt he held the patent of his honours im- 
mediately from Almighty God. Na-.ure had indeed 
marked him a gentleman in the most legible cha- 
racters. He died while yet a young man, soon af- 
ter the publication of nr.y brother's first Kdinburgh 
eu'.tioii. Sir William Cunningha..i of Rnbeitland, 
paid a very flattering attention, and showed a good 
deal of friendship for the poet. Before his going to 
Kdinburgh, as well as after, Robert seemed peculiar- 
ly pleased with Professor Stewart's friendship and 
conversation. 

" But ofall the friendships which Robert acquired in 
Ayrshire and elsewhere, none seemed more agreeable 
to him than that of Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop ; nor any 
which has been more uniformly and constantly exert- 
ed ill behalf of him and his family, of which, were it 
proper,! could give many inslmices. Robert was on 
the pnintof setting out for Edinburgh before Mrs. Dun- 
lop haci heard of him. About the time of my brother's 
pMblishing in Kilmarnock, she had been afBicted with 
» long ami severe illness, which had reduced her mind 
10 the most distressing state of depression. In this 
tiiuatijii, a copy of the printed poems was laid on her 
lar.le by a friend ; and happening lo open on The Cot- 
ter '« Sat'ird 'V Night, she re.vd it ov^r with the great- 
Mt (>lea»nrc hm' -urprise ; the poi-l's description of the 
utu^ia cellueci 0, oj^raiiiig on h«r mind like the charm 



per, entitled The Lounger, was publinhing, evsrv Z'mt- 
urday producing a successive number, iiis iyt)euia 
had attracted the notice of the Rentlemen engaueO u> 
that undertaking, and the ninety. seventh nuinuer o( 
those 'Jiieqiial, though freqiiemly beaiiul'ul tRsavR. l» 
devoted to An Account of Robert Burns, th'- Ayrshire 
Pioughma.i, with extrni.ts from his Poejns, writicn 
by the elegant pen of Mr. Mackenzie.* T/ir Lounstr 
had an extensive circulaiion among persons of tasie 
and literature, not in Scotland only, but in vari'jui 
parts of Kngland, ici whose acquaiiilitnce therefore our 
bard was immediately nilrodi'ced. I'lie paper of Mr. 
Alackeu/.ie was calculated lo introduce huii advnn- 
tageoMsly. The extracts are well selected ; the criti- 
cisms and reflections are judicious as well ».< seneroos ; 
and in the style and sentiments there is thai lia|jpy 
delicacy, by which the writings of the aullior, aie so 
eminently distinguished. The extracts from Bums'* 
poems in the ninety-seventh lumber of Th Lounget 
were Copied into the London as well as into many of 
the provincial papers, and the fame of our bard spread 
throughout the island. Of the manners, chiiracirr, 
and conduct of Burns at this period, tlie iolluwing ac- 
count has been given by Mr. Stewart, t rotessor of 
Moral Philosophy in the university of Kdmbiirgh, 
in a letter to the editor, which he is peculiar hai/|"y 
to have oblaiuei permission to iiiseit in these me- 
moirs. 

•' The first time I saw Robert Burns was on ihf 23t, 
of October, 1783, when he dined at my house in Ayr 
;-hire, together with our common friend .Mr. John 
Mackenzie, surgeon, in Mauchline, to whom lam in- 
debted for the pleasure of his acquanilance. I amen- 



of a powerful exorcist, expelling the demon ennui, and 
restoring her to her wonted inward harmony and sat- 
isfaction. Mrs. Dunlop sent off a person express to 
Mossgiel, distant fifteen or sixteen miles, with a .cry 
oblis^ing letter to my brother, desiring him lo sena her 
half a dozen copies of his poems, if he had ihem to 
spare, and begging he would io her the pleasure at 
calling at Dunlop House as soon as convenient. Thi» 
was the beginning of a correspondence which ended 
only with the poet's life. The last use he made of bi« 
pen was writing a short letter to this lady a few di3J"t 
before his death. 

"Colonel Fullarion, who afterwards p:'Ad a »e»7 
particular attention lo the poet, was noi in the country 
at the time of his first con.mencing anihor. At thi* 
distance of time, and in the hurry of a wci ilay, enalch. 
edfrom laborious occupations, 1 may have firgolsoni* 
persons who ought to have been mentioned on mis oc- 
casion ; for which, if it come to my knowledge 1 shall 
be heartily sorry." 

The friendship of Mrs. Dunlop was of particular 
value to Burns. This lady, daughter and sole 
heiress to Sir Thomas WalUice of Craigie, and lineal 
descendant c'' the illustrious Wallace, the firsi of Scot- 
tish warriors, possesses the qualities of niuul suiteii 10 
her high lineage. I reserving, in the decline of life, the 
generous affections of youth ; her admiration of the 
poet was soon accompanied by a sincere friendship fur 
the man ; which pursued him in after-life through goo4 
and evil reiiori ; in poverty, in sickness, aud in tor 
row ; and which is continued to his infant family, now 
deprived of their parent. 

* This paper has been atlribuied, but improperly, 
to Lord Craig, one of the Scottish judges, author of 
the very interesting account of Michael Bruce in t^s 
3Sih number. 

I 



86 



THE. LIFE OF BURNS. 



ftbledio meiitics the «.'ate particularly, by some verse* 
wliich Bums wrote after lie reiniiieil home, aiid in 
winch the day of our meeting is recorded. My excel- 
Ipul and ~»uch lamentei friend, the late Basil, Lord 
Oaer, happened to arrive at Cairine the same day, and 
by llie kindness and frankness of his manners, left an 
impression on the mind of the poet, winch never was 
effaced. The verses 1 allude to are among the most 
imperfect of his pieces ; bnt a few stanzas may peihaps 
be an object of curiosity to you, both on acconni of llie 
character to which they relate, and of the light which 
they throw on the situation and feelings of the writer, 
belore his name was known to the public." 

"i cannot positively say at this distance of time, 
whether at the period of our fii st acquaintance, the Kil- 
marnock edition of his poems had been just published, 
or was yet in the press. 1 suspect that the latter was 
the case, as 1 have still In my possession copies in his 
own hand writiug,of some of liis favorite performances ; 
particularly of his verses " on turning np a Mouse with 
his plough ;" — " on the Mountain Daisy ;" and " the 
l-ainent." On my return to Edinburgh, I showed the 
volume, and mentioned what I knew of the author's 
history to several of my friends: and among others, 
to Mr. demy Mackenzie, who first recummended 
nim to public notice in the 97th number of Tke Loun- 



" At this time Bnrns's prospects in life were so ex- 
tremely gloomy, that he liail seriously formed a plan of 
going out to Jamaica in :i very humble siluntion, not 
however without lamenlmg that his want of patronage 
should force him to think of a project so repugnant to 
his feelings, when his aniliiiion aimed at no higher an 
object than the station of an exciseman or ganger in 
his own country, 

" His manners were tl\en, as they continued ever 

afterwards, simple, manly, and independent ; strong- 
ly expresive of conscious genius and worth ; but with- 
out any thing that indicated forwardness, arrogance, 
or viiniiy. tie took his share in conversation, but not 
more than belonged to him ; and listened with appa- 
rent attention and deference on subjects where his 
want of education deprived him of the means of infor- 
mation. If there had been a little more gentleness and 
accommodation in liis temper, he would, 1 think, have 
been si ill more inteieating ; but he had been accustom- 
ed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaint- 
ance ; and his dread of any thing approaching to mean 
iiess or servility, rendored his manner somewhat deci- 
ded and haril. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarka- 
ble among his various attainments, than the fluency, 
and precision, and originality of his language, when 
he spoke 111 company ; more particularly as he aimed 
bl purity in his turn of expression, and avoided more 
successfully than most Scotchmen, the peculiarities of 
Scottish phraseology. 

" He came to Eilinburgh early in the winter follow- 
ing, and remained there for several months. By whose 
advice lie took this step, I am unable to say. Perhaps 
it was suggested only by his own curiosity to see a lit- 
tle more of the world ; but, I confess, 1 dreaded the 
coiiaeqnences trom the first, and always wished that 
nis pursuits and habits should continue the same as in 
the former part of life ; with the adilition of what I 
considered as then completely within his reach, a good 
fiirm on moderate terms, in a part of the country agree- 
able to his taste. 

" The attention he received during his stay in town, 
from all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such 
as W'luld have turned any lii^ad but his own. I can- 
not say that 1 could perceive any unfavourable effect 
which they left on his mind, lie retained the same 
simplicity of manners and appearance which had 
struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the coun- 
t*-y ; nor did he seem to feel any additional self-im- 
(•orlance from the number and rank ot his new ac- 

* See the poem entitled " Lines on an Interview 
vita Lord Daer" 



quaintance. Bis dress was peri ctly suited to tu na 
tion, plain, and unpretending, with h sulhcieu', atlea- 
tion to neatness. If I recollect light be always woie 
boots; ami, when on more than usual ceremony, buck- 
skin breeches. 

" The variety of his engagements, while in Kiin- 
burgh, [ireveiiied me from seeing him so olteii as 1 
could have wished. In the course of the spring he call- 
ed on me once or twice, at my lequesi, early i!) the 
morniug, and walked with me to Brunl, ills, in tli« 
neighbourhood of the town, when he charmed me still 
more by his private conversation, ihan lie had ever 
done in company, lie was passionately fond of tlie 
beauties of nature ; and 1 recollect once he lold 
me wlieii 1 was admiring a distant prospect in 
one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many 
smoking cottages gave a pleasure to Ins mind, wliicii 
none could understand who has not witnessed, like 
liiniself, the happiness and the worth which they con- 
tained. 

" In his political principles he was then a Jacobite ; 
which was perhaps owing partly tothis, that his lather 
was originally from the estate of Lord Maieschall. 
Indeed he did not appear to have thought mncli on 
such subjects, nor very consistently. I.eli.vda veiy 
strong sense of religion, and expressed ileep regret at 
the levity with which he had heard it treated occasion- 
ally III some convivial nieelings, which he fceoueutcit. 
I speak of him as he was in the winter of I'/s'b 7 , foi 
afterwards we met but seldom, and our conversations 
turned chiefly on his literary projects, or his private af- 
fairs. 

" I do not recollect whether it appears or not from 
any of your letters to ine, that you had ever seen 
Burns.* If you have, it is superliuous to me to add, 
that the idea which his conversation conveyed of the 
powers of Ins mind, exceeded, if possible, that which 
is suggested by his writings Among the poets whore 
i have happened to know, I have been struck in inure 
than one iii-'^tance, with the unaccountable clis|jarit) 
between their general talents, and the occasional in- 
spirations of their moie favourable iiiomeiiis. But all 
the faculties of Buriis's mind were, an l^r as I could 
judae, equally vigorous; and his predilection lor poe- 
try was rathar the result of his own enlbusii.stic and 
impassioned temper, tlian of a genius exrhisivKly 
adapted to that species of composition. From in.s con- 
versation I should have pronounced him lo be fitted to 
excel in whatever walk of ambition be had ciiosen to 
exert his aoihties. 

" Among the subjects on which he was accustom- 
ed to dwell, the characters of the iiidiviiluais uith 
whom he happened lo meet, was plainly a favouiiie 
one. The remarks he made on them were always 
shrewd and pointed, though frequently inclining loo 
much to sarcasm. His praise of those he lovcil was 
scnietimes indiscriminate and extravagant ; but tins, 
1 suspect, proceeded rather from the caprice and hu- 
moui ol the moment, than from the effects of attach- 
ment in blinding his judgment. His wit was rea<ly, 
and always impressed with the marks of a vigorous iiii- 
dersiandiiig ; but to my taste, not often pleasing or 
happy. His attempts at epigram., in his pin. ted 
works, are the only performances perhaps, that he 
has produced, totally unworthy of his genius. 

" In summer, 1787, 1 passed some weeks in Ayrshire, 
and saw Burns occasionally. 1 think that he maile 
a pretty long excursion that season to the Highlands, 
and that he also visited what Beattie calls the jtrcadi- 
an ground of Scotland, upon the banks ot the Teviu» 
and the Tweed. 

" I should have mentioned before, that notwith- 
standing various reports 1 heard during the preceed- 
ing winter, of Bnrns's predilectio^i for convivial, and 
not very select society, I should have concluded in fa- 
vour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him that ever 
fell under my own observation. He told me iiidetd 
himself, that the weakness of his stomach was mich a« 

* The editor has seen ami eonv«rsed witt Buios. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



27 



U> ilepnre niAi entinly of any m»,rit in his temperance. 
1 was liowevi r ioinewliat alarmed about the effect of 
liis now comiiaialively seileiilary and luxurious iil'e, 
wneii I'.u ouMlesscil lo me, ihe first aiglii he 3;)eiu ui 
riiv hci.is>; alier his winter's campaign in town, iliat he 
had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpitation 
(t( iiii heart, which, he said was a complaint to which 
he had otlate become subject, 

" In the course of the same season I was led by cu- 
riosity lo attend lor an hour of two a Mason-Lodge in 
M.ii.chlii'.e, where Burns presided. He had occasion 
ti inalte sone simrt niipremedit.ited compliments to 
ditfernit in lividuals from whom he had no reason to 
txpecia visit, aufl every thing he said was happily 
conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. 
If I am not mistaken, he told me (hat in that village, 
lefore ijoing to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a small 
club of such of the inhabitants as had taste for books, 
wl'-n they I'sed to converse and debate on any interest- 
ing qiiesiions that occurred to them in the course of 
thtir reading. His manner of speaking in public had 
evidently the marks of some practice in extempore elo- 
cution. 

" I must not omit to mention, what I have always 
considered as characteristical in a high degree of true 
genius, the extreme' I'aoility ai.d good-nuture of his 
taste in judging of the composiuons of others, where 
there was any real ground for praise. I repeated to 
h I iTi many passages of Kuglish poetry with whicji he 
wasi iiuacquaiiited, and have more than once witness- 
ed (he tears of admiration and rapture with which he 
heard them. The collection of songs by Dr. Aikin, 
which I first put into his hands, he read with unmixed 
delight, notwithstanding his fo-mer efforts in that very 
diiticult species of writing ; and 1 have little doubt that 
illiad some effect In polishing his subsequent coinposi- 
tiona. 

" In judging of prose, I do not think his taste was 
equally somid. I once read to him a passage or two 
ill Franklin s Works, which I thought very happily ex- 
ecuted, upon the niodel of Addison ; but he did not 
appear to relish, or to perceive the beauty which they 
derived from their exquisite simplicity, and spoke of 
lliem with indifference, when compared with the point, 
and antithesis, and quaintness ot Juiius. The influ- 
ence of this taste is very perceptible in his own prose 
compositions, although their great and various excel- 
lences render some of them scarcely less objects of 
wonder than his poetical performances. The late Dr. 
Robertson used to say, that considering his education, 
the former seemed to him the more extraordinary of 
the two. 

"Hisiaemory was uncommonly retentive, at least 
for poetry, of which he recited to me frequently long 
compositions with the most minute accuracy. They 
were chiefly ballads, and other pieces in Scottish dia- 
lect ; great pan of them (he told me) he had learried in 
his childhood f-om his mother, wbo delighted in such 
recitatoiis, and whose poetical taste, rude, as it proba- 
bly was, gave, it is presumable, the first direction to her 
•on's genius. 

" Of the more polished verses which accidentally fell 
into his hands in his early years, he mentioned parti- 
cularly the recommendatory poems, by different au- 
thors, prefixed to Hervei/a Mdilafions ; a book 
which has always had a very wide circulation among 
•och of the country people of Scotland, as affect to 
unite some degree of '.a ste with their religions studies. 
And these poems (although they are certainly below 
mediocrity) he continued to read with a degree of rap- 
ture beyond expression. He took notice of this fact 
nimsclf, 08 a proof how much the taste is liable to be 
influenced by accidental circumstances. 

" His father appeared to me, from the account he 
gave of him, to Have been a respectable and worthy 
character, possessed of a mind superior lo what might 
have been expected from his station in life. He ascri- 
bed n.uch ol his own priii'-iples and fee'Ungs to the ear- 
ly iaupre»»iuus iic kaU ! eceivcd u uiu his uastrucliau nud 



example. I recnll«ct that he once applied oftim(ai.d 
he added, thai t!.e passage was a lUiiral siatemeul of 
fact) the two lasi lines ol the lol lowing pasiage in ttie 
Ali tstr I ; ilie whole of which he repeaivd with great 



Shall 1 be left forgotten in the dusl. 

When fate, relenting, lets the flower re»We? 
Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 

Bind him, though dooin'd to perish, hope lo live I 
Is it lor this lair virtue oft must strive, 

VViin disappointinent, penury, and pain ? 
No ! Heaven's immortal S|iring shall yet arrive ; 

And man's majesiic beauty bloom again, 
Bright thro' the eternal year of love's triumphant 
reign. 

TViis truth sublime, his simple sire had taught t 
In sooth, Hwas almost all the shepherd kneto. 

" With respect to Burns's early education, 1 cannot 
say any thing with certainly. He always spoke with 
respect and gratitude of the schoolmaster who had 
taught him to read English ; and who, finding in hia 
scholar a more than ordinary ardour for knowledge, 
had been at pains to instruct him in the grammatical 
principles of the language. He began the study of La- 
tin, and dropt it belore lie had finished the verbs. I 
have sometimes heard him quote a few Latin words, 
such as om/iiiL vincit amor, dc. but they seemed to be 
such as he had caught from conversation, and which 
he repeated by rote. I lliiiik he had a project, after 
he came to LiUnburgh, of prosecuting the study under 
his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicul, one o< the 
masters of the gramniar-scliool here ; but I do not 
know that he ever proceeded so far aa lo make iba 
attempt. 

" He certainly possessed a ■smattering of French ; 
and, if he had an artectation in any thing, it was in iii» 
trodiicing occasionally a word or phrase from that Ian. 
guage. It is possible that his knowledge in this respect 
might be more extensive than I suppose it to be . but 
this you can learn from his more intimate acquaint- 
ance. It would be worth wliile to inquire, whether 
he was able to read the French authors with 
such facility as to receive from them any improvement 
to his taste. For my own part, I doubt it much ; nor 
would 1 believe it, but on very strong and pointed evi- 
dence. 

" If my memory does not fail me, he was well in- 
structed in arithmetic, and knew something of practi- 
cal geometry, parliculaily of surveying. — All his other 
attainments were entirely his own. 

" The last time I saw him was during Ihe winter, 
178889,* when he passed an evening with me at 
Drumseugh, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, 
where 1 was then living. My friend, Mr. Alison, was 
tbe only other person in compai.j I never saw hiro 
more agreeable or interesting. A present which Mr. 
Alison sent him afterwards of his Essays on Taste. 
drew from Burns a letter of acknowledgment which I 
remember to have read with some degree of surprise 
at the distinct conception he appeared from it to have 
formed of the general principles of the doctrine of u*-so- 
ciation. When 1 saw Mr. Alison in Shropshire last 
autumn, I forget to inqiiii e il the letter be still in exist- 
ence. If ills, you may easily procureil, by meai.s of 
our friend Mr.Houlbrooke."t 



* Or rather 1739-90. I cannot speak with confidence 
with respect to the parliculai year. Some of my other 
dates may possibly require correction, as 1 keep no 
journal of such occurrences. 



This lelinr 



wxiy. 



28 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Th! (cene (hat opened on our bard in Sdinburgh 
WM altoijeilier new, and in a variety of oiher respecig 
bigniv iiiieresiii.5, especiiilly to one of his disposition 
of niPifl. To use an ex|irc-ssion of his own, lie found 
himself, •'suddenly translated frum the veiiest shailes 
of life," into the presence, anil, indeed, uito the socie- 
ty of a number ol iiersons, previously known to him by 
report as ol the higliest distinction in iiis country, and 
whose characters it was natural for him to examine 
with uo common curiosity. 



Prom the men of letters, in general, liis reception 
was panicnlarlv flattering. 'I'he late Dr. Robinson, 
Dr. Blair, Dr. Gregory, Air. Stewart, Mr. Mackenzie 
• ml Mr. Frazer 'I'ytler, may be mentioned ni the list 
Ct those who perceived his uncoinmon talenis, who 
acknowledged more especially his powers in conversa- 
ti'ii, and who iiiteresteil themselves in the cultivation 
ol Ills genius. In Kdinbiir^h, literary and fashionable 
society are a good deal mi ted. Our hard was an ac- 
tei'tahle guest in the gnyest and most elevated circles, 
an<l frequently received from female beauty and ele 
paiice, those Htteiition? atiove all others most grateful 
to hiui. At the table of Lord Mnnboddo he was a fre- 
quent guest : and while he enjoyed the society, ana 
pariook of the hospitaliiics of ihe venerable judge, he 
experienced the kinilness and coiidecension of his 
lovely and accomplished daughter. 'I'he singular 
beamy ofthis young lady was illuminated by that hap- 
py expression of countenance which results from the 
Union of cultivated taste and superior understanding, 
with the finest ati'ectioiis of the miinl. The iuHuence 
of such attractions was not unfelt by our poet. " There 
has not been any thing like Miss Biirnet, (said he in a 
letter to a friend,) in all the combination of beauty, 
Ri ace. and goodness the Creator has formed, since 
Alilion s Kve, on the first day of her existence." In 
his Arldress to Edinhurgii, the ia celebrated iu & atain 
of still greater elevation : 

•' Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye. 
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shiue I 

I lee the Sire of Love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine !" 

This lovely woman died a few yearj afterward? 
In the flower of youth. Our hard expressed his 
(eiiiiil)iliiy on thai occasion, in veries addressed to 
her memory. 

jlmoiig the men of rank and fashion. Burnt was par- 
ticularly disiinguished by .lames, Earl of Ulencairn. 
Onthe motion of this noii'leinan, th» Caltdonian H i.l. 
an association ol the principal ol the nobility and gen- 
Iry ol Scotland, extended their patronage to our hard, 
and admitted him to their gay orgies. He repaid 
thiir notice by a iledication of the enlarged and im 
|>rovei', edition of his poems, in which he has celebrated 
their patriulism and iiideptndeiice in very animated 



" I congratulate my coiinti-y that the blood of her an- 
cient lieiocs runs niicor. laminated ; and that. iVoni 
your courage, knowledge and jjoblic spirit, she may 
SX|ieCt proti-ction, weiilth, ami libei ty.' * • ' May 
corruption slirink at your kindling iodlguHrit glance; 
and rnty tyranny in'tlic li.iler, and licenliousne--s in 
the i eople, e^uaily find in you an inexorable loe!"* 



It is to he presumed that these eenerons sentiments, 
atler ed at an era singular ly pr-opilions loindependr.nce 
of character and condiiri, wer-e favourably receivrri by 
the persons to whom they were addressed, and that 
they were echoed from every bosom, as well as from that 
pi the Karl of Gleocairrr. This accomplished nobleman, 
ascf.olar, a inarr ofiasle and sensibility, died soon af 
terwards. tiad he lived, and had his power equalled 
his wisnes, Scotland might still have exulted in the 
eeiiios. Instead of lamenting the early fate of her fa- 

* 8(41 I7«di«atioB pr«&xad t* tb« Poema 



A taste for letters is not alwayt conjoined with hah 
its of temperance and regularii) ; and r- dinbureh, ai 
the period of which we speak, rorrtaiir:d perhaps aa 
iincornmorr proporlion of men 01 cojjsiderable talerrta, 
devoted to social excesses, in which their taleuu wer* 
wasted and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this deacrip 
lion, with the usual vehemence of his char-acter. Hit 
generous af^ictions, his ardent eloquence, his hrilliaii* 
and daring imaginatio:r, 'itted him to be the idol ol 
such associations ; aird accusloming himself to con 
versation of unlimited range, and to festive ir>dulgeircei 
that scor-rred restraint, he grailnally lost some jioitioii 
of liis relish for' the more pi're, but less poignant plea 
sures, to be found in the circles of taste, elegance, and 
literature. The sudderr alteration of his habits of lif* 
oiierated orr him physically as well as morally, 'i'he 
humble fare rf an Ayr-shire peasarrl Ire had exchanged 
lor the liixiri-ies of the Scottish metropolis, and the ef- 
fects of this change on his ardent corrstitiition could 
not be incoirsiderable. But whatever influence might 
be produced on his conduct his excellerrt uiiderslanri 
ing sirfTei-fd rro corresporrding debasement. he esti- 
mated Iris frierrds and associates of every descri|ition 
at their propel' value, arrd ap))r-eciaied his owrr rondict 
with a precision that ..right give scope to mrrcli curiont 
and melarrcholy reflection, f'e saw his dairger, and at 
times formed resolutiorrs to giiai-d against il ; but Jie 
had embarked on the tide of dissipation, and watborua 
along its stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this lime, an authentic, 
thorrgh imperfect ilocninent remains, ni a book >vhich 
he procur-ed in the sprirrg of 1787, for the purpose, at 
he himself irrforrns us, of recording in i: whatever 
teemed worthy of obae rvatiorr. The following ex- 
tracta may serve as a specimen : 

Edi-b:r^h, April9,\1S7. 
'• As I have seen a good deal ol human life in Kd- 
inburgh, a great many characters «hich are new to 
one bred up in thr abades of life at I have beerr, I am 
deieriniiied to taki^ down my remarks on the spot. 
Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. I algrsve, that • half 
a word fixed rrpoii, or near the spol, i< worth a cart 
loail of recollection.' 1 doir't know how it i< with iha 
world irr gerreral, brrt with nre, makirrg my remarks it 
by no mearrs a solitary pleasm-e. I want some one 
to laugh Willi me, some one to be grave wilh me, 
some orre to please me, and help my discrimination, 
with his or her own remark, arrd at limes, no doubt, 
to admire my acuteness arrd perretr'alion. The world 
are so busreii with stlHsh irursrrits, ambiiioii, vanity, 
ii-.terest, or pleasure, that very few 'hrirfc it woilh 
their wliile to make any observation on what passea 
arorrnd them, except where that observation is a 
sucker, or branch of the darling plarrl tirey are rear- 
ing in their fancy. Nor am I sine, lOtwithMtanihng 
all the sentimer'rlal flights of irovel writers, and lha 
siige piiilosophy of inor-alisis, whether we art capabla 
of so iiririrrate and corilral a coalition ol frier^dshrp, aa 
that orre man in.iy pour out Iris hosom, his every 
tlioiighl arrd floating fancv, his very iirm<isl soirl, with 
rrnre.serveil CiMifidence to arrolhi-r, without hazard of 
losiirg part of that respect which man de.vt ves from 
man ; oi-, Ir-om the iinavoiilai'le imperfect iona al- 
tending human nature, of one day repenting hit con- 
fidence. 

" For these reasons 1 am determined to make thtta 
pages my confidant ; I will sketch ever-y character 
that arry way st-ikrS me, to the best of itf* (lOWer, 
with rrirshrir.liirrg justice. I will irrsert anecdotes, and 
take down remarks in th« olil law |jhrase, icilho:.t 
feud or favour. Where I hit on any thing clever, 
my own applause will, irr some measure, feast my 
vaniiy ; arrd, begging 1 airoclns' arrd Achates par- 
don, i thirrka lock and key a security, at least equal 
to the hosom of any friend whalevtfl-. 

" My own private story likewise, my love ailTsn- 
lures, iny rambles ; the fr-ownt and smiles of tbrti.na 
on my hardship ; my poems and Iragmentt, thai 
Bjual uaver a«« the Ui>bl, iUoil b« oacatiuually ma*r« 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



•d. fn ahort, nerer did four ahilllnga purchase (c 
mucli iritiicUliip, (iiice contideiice went first to mar- 
ket, a iioiiesty was set up to saU. 



" To these seemingly i 
liuninii tiieii(lslii|i, 1 wi 
teplioii — ilie connexion 
fcreiii sexes, wlieii llieir 
Borheil by llie t ie ot' love — 

When Ihoughl meeti thought, ere from the lipi 



viiliniis, but too just ideas of 
111 cheerrnlly make one 
nweeii two pel sous of 
iiieresls are united and 



And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. 

Tl.ere confidence, confidence that exalts tliem the 
miue in one anoihtr's 0|pinioM, thai endears lliem the 
muie l'> each other's hearts, untecei vedly "' reigns anil 



y the by, I have no great 
should be cast with the 
Itch alnue ou the house- 



ch«i;ce ot being,) my 
Psalmist's sparniw, " 
tops." — Uh! the pity. 



" There are few of the sore evils under the sun give 
me more .ineasiness and chagrin than the ciiin[mrisoii 
h"\v a man ol genius, nay, of avowed worth, is re- 
ceived every where, with the receiaioii which a mere 
oiiliiiary character, decorateil with llie trappings and 
futile distiiicliiiiis of foriniie, meets. I imagine a man 
ul abilities, his breast glowing with honest pride, con- 
•cioiis that men are born equal, still giving honour to 
honour to whom Itonoui is due \ he meets al a great 
man's table, a Squire someihing, or a tjir somebody : 
lie knows the /io6ie laiullord, at heart, gives the batd, 
or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, be- 
y.iiid, perhaps, any one at table ; yet how will I; mor- 
tify him to see a fellow, whose abilities wouM scarce- 
ly have made an eig/tr-pe my tni/.or, and whose heari 
is 'lot worth three farthiiiss, meet with aiteiilnin and 
notice, that are withheld from the son of genius and 



" The noble Glencairn has •voiuided me to the annl 
here, because 1 dearly esteem, resp-cl, and love liiin. 
He sliowfd so much attention, ei. grossing atteiitinii 
one day, to ihijoiily blockhead at iaole, (the whole 
Company consisieil of his lorlship, diiiulerpaie, and 
myself,) that I was within half a point ofllirjwiiig 
down my sage of contemiiinoiis defiance ; but he 
•hook my hand, and looked so henev.ilently gond itt 
parting. God bless him! llioiigh I should never see 
him more, I shall love liiin until mydyiin;day ! I am 
iMeased t) lliiiik I am so capable of the throes of grat- 
itnde, as I am miserably delicient in some other vir- 
tues. 

" With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease. I never 
respect him wiih humble veneratinii ; but when he 
kindly interests liiinseif in my welfare, or still more, 
when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on 
equal ari.inid ill conversation, my heart overfiows 
with what is called liking. When he neslects ine for 
the mere carcass "f greatness, or when his eye mea- 
sures the ditl'ereiice of our points of elevation, I say to 
myself, with scarcely any emotion, what do 1 care for 
him or his pomp either :"' 



The intentions of the poet in procurins this hook, so 
fully described by liim-ieif, were very imperfectly exe- 
cuted, lie has iuserieil in it tew or no iiici leiits, but 
Beveral ob.-iervations and retlections, of which the 
ereater part that aie proper for the public eye, will he 
found interwoven in his letters. The most curious 
particularj in the boi)k are the deiiiieaticns ot" the 
characters he met wiih. These are not uurnerous, 
Ijpt they are chiefly of persons o( distinction in the re- 
f'lblic of letters, and nothing but the delicacy and 
esiect due to living characters, prevents us IroiTi 
soii-mitting them to the press. Though it appears 
hai in his contersatiou he was sometimes disposed to 
•rcastic ren^rks on the men with whom he lived, 
<oti«iug uf \Xu» kind is diacavsrabia iu tlMW more de- 



liberate efforti ol hie understanding, vrhleh, nhii« 
'.hey exhibit gieat clearness ol discnminaiioii, niani 
lest also llie wish, as well as the power, lo bwiow 
high aiul generous praise. 

As a specimen of these delineations, we give iu this 
edition ibe character of Ur. lilair, who has now paid 
tlie debt .,f nature, in the iVIl conli.l-nce that this 
freedom will nut be found incunsisieiii with the res- 
pect and veneration due to that excelleiil man, the last 
star ill the literary consicllaiion, by which the me- 
tropolis of Scotland was, in the eioiier part of the 
present reign, so beautifully ilUiiuiualed. 



" 


t is no 


t eas> 


f, 


rining ai 


one ; 


but, 


n my 


"1 


iiiio 


11, D 


toiiis 


ling p 






hat 


indii 


lo. 


Natui 


al pa, 


ts 


like 




with 


; his \ 


aiiity 


s 


irov 


erbia 


]uau 


lance 




le 


S ji 


sily 


)e ca 


lied ti 


le wr 


til 


% ; 


and 


very 


first r 


duk ii 


1 


ose 


; ev 



Ulal 



are frequenily to be met 
illy known amonu his ar- 
ai'lbe head of what may 
a critic of the first, the 
en ill poetry, a bard of 
Natuie's making can only lake the p s of iiiiii. ile 
has a heart, not of ihe very finest water, hut fa: from 
being an ordinary one. In short, he is truly a worthy 
and most respectable character." 



By the new edition of his poems. Burns acquired a 
sum of money that enableil him not only to partake 
of the pleasures uf Kdmbiirgli, but to gratify a desire 
he had long eiilertained, uf visiting those parts of his 
native country, must allractive by their beauty or 
their grandeur ; a desire which the return of siimnier 
naturally revived. The >-cenery on tiie banks uf the 
■{'weed, and of its tributary streams, stroiislv inlerest 
ed his fancy ; and accordinglv he left Kiliiibiir!;h ou 
lhe6tli of May,.J7^7, on a loiir throiish a coiin'ry go 
much celebia'ted iii the rural songs uf Scotland. He 
travelled on horseback, and was accompanied, during 
s.une part of liis journey by M,-. Ainslie, now writer lo 
the signet, a genlltuian who enjoyed much uf his friend- 
mains, which, however, contains only occasional re- 
uiarlis ou the scenery, and which is chiefly occupied 
wiih an account of the author's iliH'erenl stasies, and 
with his obseiviitious on the various charadtrs lu 
whom he was introduced. Iu the course of this tour 
he visiterl Mr, Ainslie of Berrvwell. liie father of his 
companion ; Mr. Bryd,.ne, the celebrated irKVeller, to 
whom he carried a letter of iiilroiluction from Mr. 
Mackenzie ; the Rev. Dr. Sommerville, of Jedhuriih, 
thehi>torian; Mr. and Mrs. Scoii, of Waochope ; Dr. 
Klliol, a physician, reiired to a romantic spot on 'ha 
hanks of the Roole ; Sir Alexander Don : Sir James 
Hall, of Duiiglass ; and a sresil variety of other res- 



Kve 



the 



poet had s|'iead before him, and every where he re 
ceived ihe most hoS|iitable and flaiterinH attenti'ins. 
At Jedburoh he contiiuied several days, and was ho- 
noured by the magistrates with the freedom of ilieir 
borough. The following may serve as a specimen of 
this tour, which the perpetual reference to living 
characters prevents our giving at large. 



" "Saturday. M:y Stk, Left Edinburgh — Lammei- 
muir-hilts, miserably dreary in general, but at times 
Very picturesque. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Mersa — 
Reach Berrywell ■« « • 'Phe family meeting wiiij 
my rompag <on de voyage, very chariniug , particu- 
larly the sister. * " 

" Saturday. Went to church atDunse. Heard Dr. 
Bowmaker. * * * 

2'ionday. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed— 
.,ier>r and majestic — fine bridge — dine at Coldstreaia 
with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman. Beat Mr. Kore- 
raan iu a dispute about Voltaire. Drliik tea at Lei.et- 
Houstt with Mr. and Mrs. lirydonc. • • • ReceptU.* 
extrs.iielr Saliering. &\*»p at Geldslreaou 



\0 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



•' Tuerdny. Breakfast at Kelso— charming situa- 
tion of the '.own — fine bridge over the 'I' weed. En- 
chanting view? and prospects Mn boih sides of ihe river, 
eepeciailv on tlie Scotch side. ' * Visit Koxbury 
Paiace— (ine suimtion ..f it. Ruins of Roxbury Castle 
—a hoily-h'ish growing wliei-e Janies II. was acciden- 
tally killed by the burfting of a camion. A small old 
religious ruin, and a fine oKI garden planted by liie 
religious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentoi, a 
tniilr- d'/wlel of the Duke's— Climate and soil of 
Bei wickshire and even Roxburysliiie, superior to Ayr- 
sliire — bad roads — turnip and sheep husbaiuiiy, thfir 
great improvements. » • * Low marktts. conse- 
ejuentlv low lands — magnificence of farmers and farm- 
houses. Come up the 'I'iviot, and up ilie Jed to Jed- 
burgh to lie, and so wish niysell good night. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. * • * 

Charming romantic situalion ot Jedburgh, with gar- 
dens and orchards, intermingled among the houses and 
••he ruins of a onte magniliLent cathedral. All the 
towns here have the appearance of old rude grandeur, 
bill extremely idle. --Jed, a fine romantic little river. 
Dined with Capt. Rutherford. ' ' " return to Jed- 
burgh. Walk np the Jed with some ladies to be shown 
• L'JTe lane, and tJiackburn, twufairy scenes, loiroduc- 
ed to Mr. 1 otts, writer, and to Mr. Sommerville, liie 
clergyman of '.he parish, a man, and a genllemau, but 
sadly addicted to punning. 



" Jedburgh, Satnrdmj. Was presented by the ma- 
gistrates with the freedom of the town. 



' Took/arewell to Jedburgh with i 



melancholy 



■ensalions. 

" Monday, May \Alh, Kelso. Dine with the farm- 
er's club -all gentlemen talking of hiuli iiiatlers — each 
of them keejJS a hunter from SU'. to 5U/. value, and ai- 
lends llie fox-huiiling club in the country. Go out 
with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. 
Ainslie'8, to sleep. In his mind and ii. inners, ^Ir. Ker 
is astonishingly like my ilearold friend Robert Miiir — 
every thing in his house elegant, lie offers to accom 
paiiy me in my Knglish lour. 

" Tuesday. Dine widi Sir Alexander Don : a very 
Wet day. • • • Sleep at .Mr. Ker's again, and set 
out iiexi tlay for Melross— visit I ryburgh, a. fine old 
ruined abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and come 
Up llie Tweeti to Melross. Dine there, and visit that 
far famed glorious ruin — Come to Selkirk up ihe banks 
of Kllrick. 'l"he whole country heieabouls, both on 
Tweed and Kitrick, remarkably atony." 



Having spent three weeks in exploring this interest- 
ing scenery. Burns crossed over into Northumberland. 
Mr. Ker, and Mr. Hood, two gentlemen with whom 
he had become acquainted in the course of his tour, 
accompanied him. He visited Alnwick-Castle, the 
princely seal of the Duke of Northumberland ; the 
hermitage and old castle of Warksworth ; Morpeth, 
and Newcastle. --In ihis last town he spent two days, 
and then proceeded to the south-west by Hexham and 
Wardriie.lo Carlisle. --After spending a day at Car- 
lisle with his friend Mr. Mitchell, he relurned inlo 
Scotland, and at Annan his journal terminates ab 
rupily. 

Of the various persons with whom he became ac- 
ijuainled in the course of this journey, he has, in 
general, given some account; and almost always a 
Favourable one. That on the hanks of the Tweed, and 
of the 'I'iviot, our bard should find nymphs that were 
bcatitiful. is what might be confidently presumed. -- 
Two ol these are particularly describeil in his journal. 
But it does not appear that the scejiery, or its inhabi- 
tants, produced any effort of his muse, as was to have 
been wished and expected. From Annan, Burns pro. 
ceeded to Dumfries, and thence through Sanquhar, to 
MoHB«icl.DaarMaiichline, in Ayrshire, wbM-e heurriv- 



ed about the 8th of June, 1787, after a long «b»«nc« a. 

six busy and eventful months. It will eauily be con- 
ceived with what pleasure and pride he was received 
by his mother, his brothers, and sislers. He had letJ 
them poor, and comparniively fiiendless: hereliiine* 
to theinhigh in jiuLiic estimation, and easy in his c-r 
cuinstuiices. He returned to them iinchaiiged in hi 
ai dent affections, and ready to share with them to "h. 
utierniusi farthing, the pittance that fortune had be 
stowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, he pro 

ceeded again to Kdinbingh, and immediately set ou 
on a journey to the Highlands. Of this tour no pan; 
ciilars have been lound amon; his manuscripts. A 
letter to his friend Mr. Ainslie, dated Airnc/ias, neat 
Croc/innbas, by Lochltaiy,Jurie'Jli, 1787, commence* 
as follows : 

"I write you this on my tour through a country 
where savage streams tumble over savage mountains, 
thinly overspread with savage flocks, which slarvingly 
support as savage inhabitants. My last stage wa.' Iii- 
verary — to morrow night 's staue Dumbarton. I oi.ght 
sooner to have answered your kind letter, bvl you know 
I am a man of many sins. —^ 

Tart of a letter from our Bard to a friend, gif- 
ing some account of his journey, has been communi- 
cated to the Editor since ihe publication of the last edi- 
tion. The reader will be amused with the following 
extract. 

"On our return, at a Highland gentleman's hospi- 
table man.-sinn. we fell in with a merry imrty, and 
danced till the ladies left us, at three in the morning 
Our dancing was none of the French or English insi- 
pid formal movemeiiis ; the ladies sung Scoich songs 
like ansels, a: intf-vals; then we flew »\. Bab nt tke 
Brows, er, Ttdloch^or,.m, Loch Errock side,' &c. 
like midses sporting in the moltie sun, or crawa piog- 
nosticating a storm in a hair.si day. — When the dear 
lasses left us we ranged round the bowl till the good- 
lelluw hour of six ; except a few minutes that we went 
out to pay our devotions to the gloi ions lamp of day 
peeping over the lowering top of Benlomond. We all 
kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held the bowl ; 
each man a full glass' in his hand ; and l( as priest, re- 
pealed some rhyming nonsense, like 'I'homas-a Rhy- 
mer's prophesies I suppose. — After a small relresh- 
meiit of the gifts of Somnus, we proceedetl to spend the 
day on Lochloniond, and reached Dumbarton in the 
evening. We dined at another good fellow's house, 
and consequently pushed the bottle: when we Went 
out to inoiinl our hoises We found ourselves " No vera 
fou but gayiie yet." My two friends and I rode sober- 
ly down the Loch side, till by came a Highlandman at 
ihe gallop, on a tolerable good horse, but which had 
never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We 
scorned tolie out galloped by a Highlaiidman, sooff we 
started, whip and spur. 'My companions, though 
seemingly gayly mounted, fell sadly aslern ; bul my 
old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinate family, 
she strained past Ihe fiiglilandman in spile of all hit 
efforts, with the hair-halter: just as I was passing 
him. Donald wheeled hishorse, as if to cross before me 
to mar my progress, when down came his horse, and 
threw his rider's breekless a— e in a dipt hedse ; and 
down cam.! Jenny Geddes over all, and my hardship 
hrlween her and the Hiehlandnian's horse. Jenny 
Geddes trode over me with such cauti.nis reverence, 
that matters were not so bad as might well have been 
expected ; so I came off with a few cuts and bruises, 
and a ihorough resolution to be a palleru of sobriety 
for ihe future. 

" T have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the se- 
rious business of life. 1 am, just as usual, a rhyming, 
mason making, rakin», aimless, idle fellow. How- 
ever I shall somewhere have a farm soon, 
to say, a wife too ; but that must 
lot. (am hula younger son of the house of 
sus, and like other younger sons ol great families, 1 may 

* Scotch tunea. 



I was seine 
be my blessed 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



31 



faiincue, U I «hoo«a to run all ritk*, but must not 
marry. 

" I am afraid F have almost ruined one source, the 
[iniicipal one iiideed, of my former ha[ipiness ; thiic 
CleriiiU propeiisiiy 1 always hat) to fall in love. My 
Heart, no more ^lows wiili feverish ra|iture. 1 have no 
|)aiarlaisical evening niterviews stolen from the resUess 
cares and prying inhabitants of this weary world. I 
Uavii only * ' ' '. 'I'his last is one of your distant 
acqiiaiiitances, has a fine figure, and elegant manners ; 
ami in the train of some great folks whom you know, 
has seen the politest quarters in Kurope. I do like her 
a good deal ; but what piques me is her conduct at the 
coinmenceraent of our acquauitance. 1 frequently visit- 
ed her when i was in , and after passing regularly 

the intermediate degrees between the distant for- 
mal bow and the familiar grasp round the waist, I 
ventured in my careless way to talk of friendship in 

rather ambiguous terms ; and after her return to , 

I wrote to lierintiie same style. Miss, construing my 
words farther I suppose than ever I intended, flew off 
In a tangent of female dignity and reserve, like a moun 
tain lark in an April morning: and wrote me an an- 
swer which measured me out very completely what an 
immense way I had to travel before 1 could reach 
the climate of her favour. • But i am an old hawk 
at ilie spurt; I wrote her such a cool, deliberate, 
prudent reply, as brought my bird from her aerial 
lowerings, pop down at my foot like corporal Trim's 
bat. 

" As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, and 
all my wise sayings, and why ray mare was called 
Tenny Geddes ; they shall be recorded in a few weeks 
hence, at Linlithgow, in the clironicles of your memo- 
ry, by 

"ROBERT BURNS." 



Prom this journey Burns returned to his friends in 
Ayrshire, with whom he spent the month of July, re- 
newing his friendships and exiendirig hi* acquaintance 
throughout the country, where he was now very gen- 
erally known and admired. In August he again visit- 
ed Edinburgh, whence he undertook another journey 
towards the middle of this month, in company with 
Mr M. Adair, now Dr. Adair, of Hairowgale, of 
which this gentleman has favoured us with the follow- 
ing account. 

" Burns and t left Edinburgh together in August, 
1787. We rode by Linlithgow and Carron, to Stirling. 
We visited the iron works at Canon, with which the 
poet was forcibly Jtruck. The resemblance between 
that place, and its inhabitants, to the cave of Cyclops, 
which must have occurred to every classic reader, pre 
Bented ilself to biurns. At Stirling the prospects from 
the castle strongly interested him ; in alormer visit to 
which, his national feeling* h:id been powerfully ex- 
cited by the ruinous and roofless state of the hall in 
which the Scottish parliaments had been held. His 
iniligiiaticin had vented itself in some imprudent, but 
not unpoetical lines, which had given much offence, 
and winch he (oolc this opportunity of erasing, by break- 
ing the pane of ihe window at the inn on which they 
Were written. 

" At Stirling we met with a company of travellers 
from Edinburgh, among whom was a character in 
many respects" congenial with that of Burns. 'I'hia 
was Nicol,one of the teachers of the High Grammar- 
Sctiool at Edinburgh — the same wit and power of con- 
versation ; thesame fondness for convivial society, and 
tl)oui£htlessness of to-morrw, characterized both.-- 
Jacobitical principles in politics were common to both 
of them ; and these have been suspected, since the re- 
volution of France, to have given place in each, 
to opinions apparently opposite. I rezret that 1 
have preserved no memorabilia of their conversation, 
tithes- on this or on other occasions, when I happened 
to ,neet ihem together. Many songs were sung, which 
I mention for the sake of observing, that when Burns j 
vtij. called on in his torn, he was accnsinmed, iiiRlead 1 
»'<iu^iiig, to ratita pn« or the oilier of liie own «horter i 



poems, with a tone and emphasis, which, thoigh not 
correct or harmoniuns, weie impressive and pathetic. 
This he did on the present i 



" From Stirling we went next mornir^g through the 
romantic and fertile vale of Devon to liar\;esion, in 
Clackmannanshire, then inhabited by Mrs. naunltun, 
with the younger part ol whose family Burns Mad lieei. 
previously acquainted, lie introduced me to ihe family, 
and there was formed my fiist acquaintance Aitli Mrs. 
Hamilton's eldest daughter, to whom I have been mar- 
ried for nine years, 'i'hus I was indebted to Burns 
for a connexion from which I derived and expect fur- 
ther to derive much happiness. 

'• During a residence of about ten days at Harvie- 
ston, we made excursions to visit various parts of ilie 
surrounding scenery, inferior to none in Scoiland, in 
beauty, sublimity, and romantic interest ; pai licuiarly 
Castle Campbell, the ancient seat of the family of Av- 
gyle : and the famous Cataract of the Devon ; called 
the Caldron Limi; and the Rambling Bridge, a sin- 
gle broad arch, thrown by the Devil, if tradition is to 
be believed, across the river, at about the hsight of a 
hninired t'eet above its bed. 1 am surprised that none 
of these scenes should have called forth an exertion of 
Burns 's muse. But I doubt if he had much taste for 
the picturesque. 1 well remember, that the ladies at 
Harvieston, who accompanied us on this jaunt, ex- 
pressed their disappointment at his not expressing iit 
more glowing language, Ins impressions of the Caldron 
Linn scene, certainly highly sublimtc, and somewhat 
horrible. 

" A visit to Mrs. Bruce, of Clackmannan, a lady a- 
bove ninety, the lineal descendant of that race which 
gave the Scottish throne its brightest ornament, inter- 
ested Ills feelings more powerfully. This venerai/j 
dame, with characteristical dignity, informed me oa 
my observing that I believed she was descended from 
the tamily of Robert Bruce, that Robert Bruce was 
sprung from herlamily. Though almost deprived of 
speech by a paralytic affection, she preserved her l:es- 
pitality and urbanity. She was in the possession of 
the hero's helmet and two-hamled sword, with which 
she'conferredon Burns and myself the honour of knight- 
hood, remarking, that she had a better right 1o confer 
that title than so7?iepeopZi!. * * You will ofcour.se 
conclude that the old lady's political tenets were as 
Jacobitical as the poet's a conformity which coniriliii- 
ted not a little to Ihe cordiality of our reception and 
eiitertainment.--She gave us as her first toast after 
dinner, Awa' Uicos,or Away with the Strangers. -- 
Who these strangers were, you will readily under- 
stand. Mrs. A. corrects me by saying it should be 
Hrjni, or Hooi uncos, a sound used by shepherds to di- 
rect their dogs to drive away the sheep. 

"We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross (on the 
shore of Loclileven) and liueen's-ferry. I aminclined 
to think Burns knew nothing of poor Michael Bruce, 

ho was tlien alive at Kinross, or had died there a 
short while before. A meeting between tne barils, or 
a visit to the deserted cottage ami early grave of poor 
Bruce, would have been highly interesting.* 

" At Dunfermline we visited the ruined abbey and 
the abbey church, now consecrated to I'resbyteriai, 
worship. Here I mounted the cutty stool, or stou] of 
a penitent for fornication ; while Burns from the pul- 
pit addressed to me a ludicrous reproof and exhorta- 
tion, parodied from that which had been delivered to 
himsfelf in Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured nie. 
once been one of seven who mounted the seal oj sfjame 
together. 

" In the church -yard two broad flag-stones markefl 
the grave of Robert Bruoe, for whose memory Burns 
had more than common veneration. He knelt and kiss- 
ed the stone with sacred fervour, and heartily (s .in 
ut mns rat) execrated the worse than Gothic neglect o' 
the first of Scottish heroes. "t 

* Bruce died some years before. K. 
t Bittrar.tor! from a letter of Dr. Adair to the Editor, 



3i 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Th2 surprise expreHaed hv Dr. Adair, in his excel- 
le».*. letter, ihitl ilie ruiiianiic scenery of the Devnn 
•hi)ul j have failed to call foitli any exertion of the po- 
ets muse, is not in its naime singular; and the dis- 
appoiiilinenl fell at liis nut ex|irpssing in moreelowir.^ 
lareuaue his emotions on the siijijl of the famous cata- 
ract of that river, is similar to what was felt hy the 
Iriends of Bnrns on other occasions of ihe same nature. 
Vet llie inlerrnce that Dr. Adair seems inclined to 
draw fiom it, that he had little lastefor the picturesque, 
nriishthe qoesiioiied, even if it stood unconii overled by 
otlierevidence. The muse of Bnrns was in a high de- 
gree capricioos , she came inicalled, and often refused 
to attend at his hidding. ( )f all the numerous subjects 
nuggested to him by his friends and correspoudents, 
thiM-e is scarcely one that he adopted. The very ex 
pr-rtaiioii that a pariicular occasion woold exciie the 
ent'rgies of fancy, if coinmuniiKUed lo Bum*, seem- 
ed in him as in other poets, destructive of the effect ex- 
pected. I euce perhaps lu.iy be explained, why the 
banks of the Devon and of the Tweed form no pari of 
Ihe subjects of his song. 

A similar train of reasoring may perhaps explain 
llie want of emotion witli which he viewed the Cal- 
dron Liini. Ceitaiuly there are no affections of the 
mind more deadened by the influence of previous ex- 
peciaiion, than those arising from the sight of natural 
objects, and more especially of objects of grandeur. 
Minute descriptinns ol sceiies, of a sublime nature, 
ehoidd never he given to those who are about to view 
Ihcm, particularly if ihey are perscns of great strength 
and sensibility of irriaginaiinu. Language seUlom or 
never conveys An adequate irlea of such objects, but 
In the iTiind of a great poet it may excite a picture 
that far tranjcemls them. The imagination of Burns 
might form a cataract, in comi)arison with which the 
Caldron Linn should seem the purling of a rill, and 
even the mighty falls of Niagara, an humble cascade.* 

Whether these suggestions may assist in explaining 
our Bard's deficiency ot impression on the occasion 
ret'erred to, or whether It ought i atlier to be iiriputed 
lo sonii- pie-occupation, or indisposition of mind, we 
presume not to liecide ; but that he was in general 
feelingly alive to the beautiful or sublime in scenery, 
may be supported hy irresistible evidence. It is true 
this pleasure was greatly heightened in his mind, as 
rnighi be ex|iected, wlie'n combined with moral emo- 
tions of a kind with which it happily unites. That 
under this association Burns contemplated the scenery 
ot the Devon witU the eye of a. genuine poet, some 
lines which he wrote at this very period, may bear 
witness. f 

. The different Journeys already mentioned did not 
satisfy the cnriosily of Burns. Abuin the beginning of 

* This reasoning might be extended, with some 
moditications, to objects nf sight of every kind. 'J'o 
have formed before hand a distinct picture in the 
mind, of any iiiierestiiig person or thing, generally 
lessens the pleasure of the first meeting with them. 
Though this picture be not superior, or even equal to 
khe reality, still it can never be expected to be an ex- 
act resemblance ; and the disappointment fell at 
finding the object something different from what was 
expected, interrupts and diminishes the emotions 
that would otherwise be produced. In stich cases, 
the second or third interview gives more pleasure 
than the first. — See the Elements of the Philosophy 
of the Huinan Mind, by Mr. Stewart. Such pub- 
lications as The Guide Co the Likts, where every 
scere is described in the most minute manner, and 
■ometimes with considtrable exaggeration of Ian- 
fiiage, are in this point of view objecuonable. 

» See the 8onEbegl.:ning, 
•* How pleasant ii»* twnlis of tho clear winding De- 



September, he again set out from Kdin>?nr^ c* • 
more extended tour to the Hiehlands, in cuinpni.; 
with Mr. Nicol, with whom he had now contracteil » 
particular intimacy, which lasted duiingthe lemain- 
der of his life. Mr. Nicol was of Dumfriesshire, ot a 
desceni equally humble with our poet. Like l.iin, Ke 
rose by the strength of his talents, and fell by ll e 
stiengihof his passions. Me died in the summer id 
1797. Having received the elements of a classical 
instruction at his parish school, Mr. Mcol made a vtry 
rapid and singular pruticiency ; and by early imdeiia 
king the odice of an instructor himself, be' lu'puird 
the means jftf entering himself at the University o) 
l-idinbijrgh. There he was tiisi a (Undent of theoUigy, 
then a St ..dent of medicine, and was afterwards f in- 
ployed ill the assistance and instruction of graduates 
in medicine, in those parts of their exercises in which 
the Latin language is tmploved. In this sitnaiicn he 
was the contemporary and rival of the celebrated Dr. 
I'lrowii, whom he resembled in the particulars of his 
history, as well as in the leading features of his cliar- 
acier. The office of assistant teacher in the fii; h- 
school being vacant, it was, as usual, filled up by 
competition ; and in the face of some pieiudices, and, 
perhaps, of some well founded ol'jections. Mr. Nicol, 
by superior learning, carried it from all the other 
candidates. 'I' his office he filled al the period o( 
which we speak. 

It is to be lamented that an acquaintance witlnhe 
writers nf Greece and Rome doe.-, not always sup| ly 
an original want of last* and coiiectness in iiiajnieii 
and conduct ; and where it fails of tins etleci. it 
sometimes inflames the native priile of temper, «hnh 
treats with disdain those delicacies in which it hns 
not learned to excel, it was thus with the fellow- 
traveller of Burns. Formed by nature in a morlel ol 
great strength, neither his person nor his nuduieis 
had any tincture of taste or elegance ; and liiii coa.-sp- 
ness was not compensated by that romantic sensibiliij, 
and those towering flights of imagination which dis- 
tinguished the conveisation of Burns, in the blare ft 
whose genius all ihe deficiencies of his manners were 
absorbed and disappeared. 

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a postchnise, 
which they engaged for the journey ; and, passiui; 
through the heart of the highlands, stretched north. 
W'arda, about ten miles beyond Inverness. There 
ihey bent their coiitse eastward, across the island, 
and returned by the shoie of the German sea to Kdin- 
burgh. In the course of this lour, some paiticniarf of 
which will be found in a letter of our bard. No. XXX 
they visited a number of remarkable scenes, and the 
imagination of Bnrns was coustanlly excited by the 
wild ami sublime scenery through which he passed. 
Of this several pro Is may be found in the poems lor- 
merly printed.* Of the hislorv of one of these 
I poems. The Humble Petition of Bruar W<t'r, and 
of the bard's visit to Athole House, some particulars 
will be found in No XXIX: and by the favoo. ol 
Mr. Walker of I ettli, then residing in the family of 
the Duke ot Alhole, we are enabled to give the lollow- 
ing additional account : 

" On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of his arri- 
val (as I had been previously acquainted with him,) 
and I hastened to meet him at the inn. The Duke to 
whom he brought a letter of introduction, was from 
home ; but the Dutchess, being informed of hisai rival, 
gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Aihoie 
House. He accepted the invitation ; but as the hour 
of supper was at some distance, begged ' would in 
the interval be his guide through the grounds. It was 
already growing dark ; yet the softened though faint 
and uncertain view of their beauties, which l!ie moon - 

• See " Lines on scaring some waterfowl in Loch- 
Tiirit, a wild scene among the hills of Ochlertyrt-.'* 
" Lines written with a tencil over the Chimney- 
piece, in the Inn at Kenn>ore, Taymouth." "Lines 
written with a pencil standing by tb* fall o( rver* 
n«»r Lt)cki>«a»." 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



33 



■ght afforded us, seemed exactly siiiird lo the stHie of 

hu leeliiigs III ilie iiine. 1 hud ulieii, like uihers, cx- 
perieiiccil the (ileasiires wliicli arise Irom llie siit)linie 
or Hiegaiil laiKiscajje, bin 1 iievf r saw iliosc feeliiijis so 
iiileiise as ill Burns. When v.'e reached a rustic hut 
on ili« river T.iL, where 11 is overliiiiig by a wooily 
precijcce, lioiii wliicli there is a ivjble waier-lall, he 
•hrtw liunaeit' on the heathy seat, and ^avc liiinself up 
•.o a lender, absii acted, and voluijiiious enthusiasm 
ol' inia^inaiion- i cannot help tliinliins it miglil have 
iieeii here llial he conceived the idea ol' ttie following 
lines, whicli he afterwards introduced into his poem 
on tirucir ^Vater^ when only fancying such a combiua- 
tioii of objects as were now present to his eye. 

Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 
Mild, chequering through i he trees, 

Rave to my darkly-dashing si ream, 
tloarse-swelhug on the breeze. 

" It was with much difficulty 1 prevailed on him to 
quit this spot, and to be introduced ia proper tune to 
siil.per. 

" My curiosity was great to see how he would con- 
duct himself in company so different fioin wliatheluid 
been accnstouied to.* His manner was unembar- 
rassed, |ilain, and firm. He appeared to have com- 
plete reliance on his own native good sense for dirnct- 
iiig his behaviour. He seemeil at once to perceive and 
lo appreciate what was due lo the company and to 
himself, and never to lorget a proper respect for the 
Separate species of dignity belonging to each. He did 
not arrogate conversati.iii, but, when led into it, he 
spoke with ease, propriety, and manliness. He tued 
to exert Ills abilities, because he knew it was ability 
alone gave him a title lo lie there. The Duke's tine 
young family allracteii much of his admiraiioii ; he 
drank their healths as homsl men and bonny Lasses, 
an idea which was much applauded by the company, 
and with which he very felicitously closed his poem.'f 

" Next day I took a ride with him through some of 
the most romantic pans of that neighbourhood, and 
was highly giatilied by his conversation. As a speci- 
men of his happiness of conception and strength of 
ex|jression, 1 will meulioii a remark wliicli he made 
on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the flniea 
few paces before us. He was a man of a rohiis; but 
clumsy person ; and while Hums was expressing to 
ine the value he entertained for him on account of Ids 
vigorous talents, although they were clouded at times 
liy coarseness of manners ; 'in short,' lie added, 'his 
mind IS like his body, he has a confounded strong, in- 
kneed sort ot a soul.' 

" Much attention was paid to Burns both before and 
after the Duke's return, uf which he was perfectly 
Sensible without being vain ; and at his departure 1 
recommended to him, as the most appropriate return 
hecoukl make, lo write some destriplive verses on any 
of the scenes with winch he had been so much de- 
lighted. Alter Icavnig Blair, he, liy Mie Duke's 
advice, visited the Falls of Bru ,r, and in a few 
d lys I received a letter from Iverness, with the verses 
enclosed."! 

It appears that the impression made by our poet on 
.he noble family of Athjie, was in a high degree fa voiir- 
aiie ; it is certain he was charmed with the reception 
he received from them, and he often meiiiioned the 
two days he spent at Atliole House as amongsl the 

* In the preceding winter. Burns had been in com- 
ptny of the highest rank in Kdinburgh ; but this de- 
■.riplioH of his manners is perfectly applicable to his 
krtt appearance in such society. 

1 See The Humble Petition of Bruar Water. 
Extract ot a letter from Mr. Walker ta Mr. Cun- 
BunsitaiB. SMl^tor No. XXIX. 



happiest in hix lif«. Re was warmly Invited lo pro 
long Ins itay, out sacriticeil lii< incliimiioiis lo 'il» tii- 
gagcment with Mr. Nicul ; which i« llie more to ba 

to Mr. Dundas (then daily expected on a visit lo the 
Dul-:e,l a circninsiaiice which aiiglii have had afavuUF- 
afie iiirtiieiice on Biirns's future fortunes. At Athole 
riouse he met, for the lirst lime, Mr. (jraham of t'intry, 
to wIkiiii he was afiei'waids indebted for the otiice in 
the txcise. 

The letters and poems which he addressed to Mr 
(iraham. bear testiinony of his sensibihty, and jus- 
lily the supposition, that he would not have been "de- 
licifciii in gratitude had he been elevated lo a siliia- . 
tion better suited to his disposition and to his tal- 
ents.' 

A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, otir poet and 
his fellow tiaveller arnved at Fochabers. In the 
course of the preceding winter Burns hail been intro- 
duced to the J>utcliess of Gordon at Edinburgh, and 
presuming oil his acquaintance, he proceeded to (jor- 
tlon-Castle, leaving Mr. Nicol at the inn in llie village. 
At the castle our poet was received with tlie utmisi 
hospitality and kindness, and the taniily being aboul 
to sit down to diniier, he was invited lo lake his place 
at table as a matter of course. 'I'lns iiivitaiion he uc- 
cepted, and alter drinking a few glasses of wine, Im 
rose up, and proposed to withdraw. Un being |.ressed 
to stay, he mentioned for the first time, hiseiigageineiu 
with his lellow-iraveiler : and Ins noble host otiei ing to 
send a servant to conduct Mr. Mcol to the castle, 
Burns insisted on iindertaKiug that oliice himself, i.e 
was, however, accompanied by a gentleman, a parti- 
cular acquaintance of the Duke, by whom the invita- 
tion Was delivered in all the forms of politeness. The 
invitation came too Kile; the pride ol Nicol was ui- 
llamedin a high degree of passion. He had ordered 
the horses lo be put to the carriage, being deierniined t> 
proceed on his jouiney alone ; and they toiind liim 
parading the sireeis of Fochabers, bofore the door uf 
the inn, veuling his anger on the postillion, lor the 
slowness with which he obeyed his coiumands. As no 
expianaiion nor entreaty could change the purpose .if 
his fellow traveller, our poel was reduced to ihe ne- 
cessity ol separating from him entirely, or of instantly 
proceeding with him on iheir journey. He chose ti.e 
last of these alternatives ; and seating himself beside 
Nicol in the post chaise with mortification and legiei, 
he tinned his back on Gordon Castle where he had 
promised himself some happy days. Sensible, how- 
ever, of the great kimlness of the noble family, he 
made the best reluru in his power, by the jioein be- 
ginning, 

" Streams that glide in orient |)lains."t 

Burns remained at Kdinburgh during the greater 
part of the winter, 1787-S, anil again enicreil into the 
society and ilissipation of that metropolis. It appears 
that on the 31st day of December, he attended a niee;- 
iiig to Celebrate the birth day of llie lineal descendant 
of the Scottish race of kiiigs, the late unfortunate 
1 rince Charles Edward. Whatever mighi have been 
the wish or purpose of the original insiitutors of ibis 
annual meeting, there is no reason to suppohe that ihe 
gentlemen of whom it was at this time composed were 
not perfectly loyal lo the King on the throne. It is not 
to he conceived that they enieriained any hope of. anv 
wish for, tlie restoration' of the lionsu of Stuart ; but, 
over their sparkling wine, they indulged the jreiierniis 
feelings which the recollection of I't.llen gieaiiiess is 
calculated to inspire ; and comineiruraied the heroic 
valour which strove lo sustain it in vain— valour wor- 
thy of a nobler cause, and a happier torinne. i.ln tins 
occasion our bard look upon himself the ortice of poel- 

* See the first Epistle to Mr. Gniliam, soliciting au 
employment in the Kxcise, Letter No. L VI. and bii 
second Epistle. 

This information is extracted from a letter o< Dw. 
Couper of Fochalviirs, lo liu Kdiior. 

2 



34 



THE LIFE OF BURiNS. 



.aartate, and produced nii ode, which ihough deficient 
U -..e cuiiiplicHltd ihyiiiui and poliined versification 
MH. Bucu coiiiposiiiuiia require, iniglil on a lair compe- 
i ..oil, wiiere energy ot feelings and of expression were 
alone in question, have won the bull of ivlalmsey from 
ihe I'eai laureate of that day. 

The following extracts may «erve a» a specimen : 



False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure ua as in days of yore : 

VVe Bolemui/.e ihis sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth — we care no more : 

4nd owing Heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive, low, adore. 

Ye honoured, mighty dead I 
Who nobly perished iu the glorious cause, 
Your King, your country, and her laws ! 

Prom great Dundee, who smiling victory led, 
And fell a martyr in her arms, 
OiV'hat breast of northern ice hut warms.') 

To bold Balmerino's undying name. 

Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven's higli 
flame. 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim.* 

Nor unrevenged your fate shall be, 

'.: only lags the fatal hour ; 
Your blood shall with inc'essant cry 

Awake at the last the unsparing power. 
As from the cliff, with tlmmienng course 

The snowy ruin smokes along, 
With doubling speed and gdthering force. 
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale I 
So Vengeance • • • 

In relating the incidents of our poet's life in Edin- 
burgh, we ought to have mentione.t the senliments of 
respect and sympathy with which he traced out the 
grave ol his predecessor Ferguson, over whose ashes in 
Uie (Janongate church-yard, he obtained leave to erect 
on humble monument, which will be viewed by reflect- 
ing minds with no common interest, and which will 
awake in the bosom of kindred genius, many a high 
eiMouon.t Neither should we pass over the continued 
trieniliihip he experienced from a poet then living, the 
amiable ami accomplished Blackiock.— To his encour- 
aging a.lvise it was owing (as has already appeared) 
tnat Burns instead ot emigrating to the West Indies, 
repaired to Kdiiiburgh. He received him there with all 
the ardour of atieclionate admiration; he eagerly in- 
troduced him to the respectable circle of his friends ; 
he coiisulfjd bis interest ; he blazoned his fame ; he 
lavished Jpon him all the kindness of a generous and 
feeling heart, into which nothing selfish r)r envious 
ever found a<lmltiance. Among the friends to whom 
te intioduced Burns was Mr. Kamsay of Ochtertyre, 

• In the the first part of this ode there is some beau- 
tiful imagery, which the poet afterwards interwove in 
a happier manner in the Chevalier's Lame.it. (See 
Le--.er, No. LXV.) But if there were no other rea 
ki.iis for omitting to print the entire poem, the wan', of 
originality would be sufficient. A considerable part of 
t is a kind of rant, fur which indeed precedent may be 
«ti 1 in various other binhday odes, but with which 
tt is inipoEsible to go along. 

t See Letters No. XIX. and XX. where the Epi- 
Upb will be found. Lc. 



to whom our poet paid a. visit in the Aulii'nn :»f 1787, «t 

his delightful letlremeni in the neighbourhood oINiii^ 
ling, and on the banks of the Teilb. Of his Ti»ii w« 
have the following particulars : 

" I have been in the company of many men of gen- 
ius " says Mr. Hamsay, ''some of them poets; but 
never witnessed ?ucli flashes ol intellectual brightness 
as from him, ihw impulse of the moment, sparks ot 
celestial tii-e ! 1 never wns more delighted, therefore, 
than with nis company for two days, tete-a-tete. In a 
mixed company I should have inatle little of him ; for, 
in the gaineoter's phrase, he did not always know when 
to play oft and when to [ilay on. • * • 1 not only 
proposed lo him the writing of a play similar to the 
Gtnlle .i/iejj/i-icl. qualm decel esse sororem, hm 
Scottish Ok T%ics a subject which Thompson has by 
no means exhausted in his Seasons. Wliai beantiful 
landscapes ol rural life and manners might not have 
been expected from a iiencil so laithlu! and forcible as 
his, w Inch could have exhibited scenes as familiar and 
interesting as those in the Gui'lle Shepherd, which 
every one who knows our swain in their unadulterat- 
ed stale, instantly recognises as true to nature. But 
to have executed eiiherof these plans, steadiness and 
abstraciiiiii from company were wanting, not lal- 
If.nis. When I asked him whether the Edinburgh 
Luerati had mended his poems by their criticism's, 
' t;ir," said he, ' these gentlemen remind me of some 
spinsters in my country, who spin their thread so 
fine that it is neither fit for wcrl't nor woof.' llesaid 
he had not changed a word except one to please Dr. 
Blair." 

Having settled with his publisher. Mr. Creech, in 
February, 1788, Burns found liiniKelf master of nearly 
fiveliiindred iiounds, alter dischareme all liis exjien- 
seR. Two hundred pounds he immediately advanced 
lo his brolhtfr Gilbert, who had taken upon himself 
the support of their aged mother, and was struggling 
with many diinculties in the farm of Mossaiel. V\ith 
the reKKiinder of this sum, and some farther eventful 
profits Ironi his poems, he deieriniiied on seltline hlm- 
sell lur lite in the occiipulinn of agiicnltiire, and took 
In.ni Mr. Miller, of Duiswinton. the farm of Ellis- 
laud, on the banks of the river Nith, six miles ahovii 
Uuiniries, on w liich he entertd at Whitsunday, 1788. 
Having been previously recommended to the Hoard o( 
Excise, his name had been pot on the list of candi- 
dates for the humble oflice of a ganger or exciseman ; 
and he immediately a])plied to acpiiii/ig the informa- 
tion necessary (or filling that oflice. when the hunoura- 
ble Board might jiidae it proper to employ him. He 
expected to be called into service in the district in 
which his farm was siriiateil. and vainly hoped to 
mute with success the labours of the farmer with the 
duties of the exciseman. 

When Burns had in this manner arranged his plans 
for fiiiurity, his generous heart turned to the object 
of his most ardent atlachmunl, and listening to no 
considerations but those of honour and aflection, he 
joined with her in a public declaration of marriaee, 
thus legalizing their union, and rendering itpermatienl 
for life. 

Before Burn* was known in Edinburgh, a specimen 
of his poetry had recommended liim to Mr. Miller of 
Dalswiiilon. Understanding that he intended lo re- 
sume the life of a farmer, Mr. Miller had invited him, 
ni the spring of 1787, to view his estate in Nilhsdalp, 
offering him at the same lime the choice of any of hia 
faimsout of lease, at such a lent as Burns and his 
friends might judge propi r. It was not in the nature 
of Burns to lake an undue advantage cf the liberality 
of Mr. Miller. He proceeded in this business, howev- 
• Exlmct of a letter from Mr. Ramsay to the Edi- 
t07 . This incoirigibility of Burns extended, however, 
only to his poems printed before he arrived in Edin- 
burgh ; for in regard to his unpubliahed poems, he was 
amenable to criticism, of which many proofs might be 
given. See some remarks on this subject, lo the Ap 
[j»e,.<ltr. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



35 



eT; with more than uaual deliberation. Having made 
dioice of the form of KUislaiid, lie employed two of hi 
frifiKls, ikillea in the value of land, to examine u 
Rii.l with their approbatimi oftered a rent to Mr. Mil 
ler, which was immediately accepted. It was not 
coiiveinciil fur Mrs. Burns to remove immediately 
from Ayishire, ajid our poet therefore took up his res- 
idejice aloiie at Kllisland, to prepare for the reception 
of Ills wife and cliildren, who joined him towards ^he 
end of the year. 

The situation in which Burns now found himself, 
was calculated to awaken reflection. 'I'he difi'erent 
steps he had ol' late taken, were in their nature highly 
important, and misht be said to have in some mea 
sure, lixed his destiny. He had become a husband 
and a father ; he had enttaged in the management of 
a considerable farm, a difficult and labori')us undeita- 
kiui; ; in his suc.es= the hap[)iness of his family was 
involved ; it was time, therefore, to abandon the 
gayety and dissipation of which he had been too much 
enamoured ; to ponder seriously on the (jast, and to 
form virtuous resolutions respecting the future. Tiiat 
Bucn was actually llie state of his mind, the following 
extract fiom his common-place book may bear wit 
uess : 

ElHsland., Sunday, Uth June, 178S. 
" This is now the third day that 1 have been in this 
country. 'Lord, what is man!' What a bustlins; 
little bundle of passions, appetites, ideas, and fancies ! 
and what a capricious kind of existence he has here I 
* * " Theie is indeed an elsewhere, where, as 
Thomson sa.y&, virtue sole survives. 

' Tell us ye dead 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be f 

————— A little time 

Will make us wise as you are, and as close.' 

" I am such a coward in life, so tired of the service, 
that I would almost at any time, with Milton's Adain, 
' gladly lay me in ray mother's lap, and be at peace.' 

" But a wife and children bind me to struegle with 
the siieam, till some sudden squall shall overset the 
tilly Vessel : or in the listless return of years, its own 
craj.iiiess reduce it to a wreck. Farewell now to those 
giddy follies those varnished vices, which, though 
half sanctified by the bewitching levity of wit and hu- 
mour, are at best but thriftless idling with th; precious 
current of existence ; nay, ofien poisoning the whole, 
that, like the plains of Jericho, the wittr is nought, 
mid the ground barren, and nothing short of a super- 
natnrally gifted Elisha can «ver after heal the evils. 

" Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles me hard- 
est to care, if virtue and religion were to be any thing 
with me but names, was what in a few seasons [ must 
have resolved on ; in my present situation it was abso- 
lutely necessary. Humanity, generosity, honest pride 
of character, justice to iriy own happiness for after- 
life, 30 far as it could depend (which it surely will a 
great deal) on internal peace ; all these joined their 
warmest suffrages, their most powerful solicitations, 
Wi.h a rooted attachment, to urge the step I have ta- 
ken. Nor have I any reason on her part to repent it. 
I can ?pi-cy how, but have never seen where, 1 could 
have made a better choice. Come, then, le*. me act 
up to my favourite motto, that glorious passage in 
Vouug — 

" On reason build resolve, 
" That column of true majesty in man !" 

lr#ctr the impulse of these reflections. Corns imme- 
d;>i.t.y engaged in rebuildins the dwelling house on 
hii .£.1111, which in the siat-i he foirnd it, was inade- 
qja.,.i vo the accommodation of his family. On this 
occasion, lie hii.iself resumed at times the occupation of 
■ li-bourer, and found neither his strength nor his 
%k jnpaired. Pleased with surveying the erounds 
Va« about to cuUivaiet aud wiili ib^ rearing of a 



building that should give shelter to his wife ami 

children, and, as lie fondly hoped, to hi» own gray 
hairs, sentiments of inileijendence buoyed up Ins 
mind, pictures of domestic conteiil and peace roie on 
his imag:inauon ; and a few days jiassed away, a» he 
himsel informs us, the most tranquil, if not the hap- 
piest, which he had ever experienced.* 

It is to be lamented that at this critical period of his 
life, our poet was wiihout ilie society of his wire and 
children. A great cluiiiiie had lakci'i place in his siui 
ation ; his old habits were broken and the new cir- 
cumstances ..I which he was placed, were calculated 
to give a new direcuon to his though'-s and conduct, f 
Bui his application to the cares and labours ot his 
farm, was interrupted by several visits to his fannl) 
in Ayrshire ; and as the distance was too great I'oi a 
single day's journey, he generally spent a night al ar. 
inn on the road. On such occasions he sunietiinei 
lell into company, and forgot the resolutions he ii&u 
tormed. In a little while temptation assailed him 
nearer home. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the attention of 
his neighbours, and he soon formed a general ac- 
quaintance in the districi in Aiii;,h I;..- lived. The 
public voice had now pronounced on the subject of 
his talents-; the leceptioii lie had met with in Kdin- 
burgh had given him the ciinency which fashion be- 
stows ; he had surmounted ihe prejudices arisii:g 
from his humble biilh, and he was received at the 
table of the gentlemen of Nirlisdale with welcome, 
with kindness, and even with res(iect. 'I'heir social 
parties too often seduced him iVom his rustic labour 
and his rustic fare, overthrew the iiiisiead> fabric of 
his resolutions, and inflamed those propensities which 
temperance might have weakened, and prudence ul- 
timately suppressed.! It was not long, therelore, 
before Burns began to view his faini with dislike and 
despondence, if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately, he had for several years looked to hu 
office in the Excise as a certain means of livelihood, 
should his other expectations fail. As has already 
been mentioned, he had been recommended to the 
Board of Excise, and had received the inslructionos 
necessary for such a situation, lie now appiieil lo tm 
employed; and by the interest of i\lr. Graham of 
Fintry, was appointed excisenrian, or, as il is viil. 
garly called, ganger, of the district in which he lived 

* Animated sentiments of any kind, almost a.*ays 
gave rise in our poet to some production of his m-ise 
His sentiments on iliis occasion were in part expressed 
by the vigorous and characteristic, though not very 
delicate song, beginning, 

" I hae a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' nae body ;" 
t Mrs. Burns was about to be confined in child bed, 
and the house at Ellisland was rebuilding. 

J The poem of The Whistle, (Poem, p. 60) cele-. 
brates a Bacchanalian contest among three gentltmea 
of Nithsdale, where Burns appears as umpire. Mr 
Riddell died before our Bard, and some elegiac verses 
to his memory will be found entitled, So:i7iel on !hi 
death of Robert Riddell. Fiom him, and from aI) 
the members of his family, Burns received not kind- 
ness only, but friendship ; and the society he mei ir 
general at Friar's Carse, was calculated to improve 
his habits as well as his manners. Mr. Fergnsson of 
Craigdarroch, so well known for his eloquence >.i.d 
social talents, dieil soon after our poet. Sir Rubeit 
I aurie, the third person in ihe drama, survives, anj 
has since been engaged in a contest of a hiooiher na» 
tore. Loiiff may he live to fight the battles of hi« 
country ! (1799.) 



3C 



THE IJFE OF BURNS. 



RIb Arm wa» bfter tt'», V» & gi*eat iBeasure iwinJoped 
to lervanu, while he betook himielf to the duties of 
hi* new appoiiitmeiit. 

He might, imleerl, still he seen in the sprins:, direct- 
hie nis |)loiis;li, a laljoDi- in which heexcellfil; or with 
* white sheet, conlaiiiiug his seed-coni, shni^ across 
Ins shoulders, stiiiliiig with measured sie^s along his 
turned up .'urrows, and scalteriiis; tlie gram in tlie 
earih. Bnl his farm no longer occui-ied the principal 
part of his care or his thoughts. It was noi at KUis- 
laiid that he was now in general to be found. Mounted 
on horseback, this high-minded poet was ,.\irsuing the 
defaulters of the revenue, among the hills and vales o( 
Nt.hsdale, his roving eve wandering over the charms 
ofcaiure, and maUerhig his wayward fancies as he 
Qtuved along. 

' I had an adventure with him in the year 1790," 
«ays Mr. Ramsay, of i>chteriyre, in a letter to the 
editor, when pa!;sin£ through Dumfriesshire, on a tour 
to the South, with Dr. Siewai t of Luss. Seeing him 
pass '|uickly, near Closehurn, I said lo my co:Tipanion, 
'thatii liuriis.' On coming to the inn, the hostler 
tolil us he would he back jji a few hours to grant per 
mils; that where he met with any thing seiziible, he 
Was no lietler than any other gau'srer ; in every ihing 
else, that he was uerfectlv a gentleman. After lea v- 
hxi a note to he delivered "o l.lm ou his return, I pro- 
ceedeil lo his house, heiua curious lo see his Jean, &c. 
I was much pleased with his ux'ir Snhina qunlis, ami 
the |)oet's inoilest m:iu«iuii, so ujilike the lial)itati(5n o( | 
ordinary rustics. Ii> r.lie eveuiii!» he sudileuly houric- 
rd in U|ion us. anil said, as he euteieil. I come, lo use 
the words of Klv<i(spi-arf , stp.iop.d inhnsle. In fact he 
h.Td rKliieii inrredihly fast after receiving my note. 
We fell iiLto ■•oiiversaiiou directly, and sooji g it into 

now gotten a story for a Dra>(Tia. which lie wiis to call 
lioh Marqn rh'ui's E/Ao ■, from a popuhir slorv of 
Robert (5ruce beitis defeated ou the water of Caern. 
when the heel of iiis boot having loosened in his flishi, 
he applied lo Rolierl Macqoechau to fit it : who, lo 
•n-ilce vure, nn his awl uiue inciies up the kios'i lieel. 
We were now 1:0111; 00 in a ^real rale, when Mr. 

course, which h id become verv interesting. Vet in a 
ittle while it was resume. 1 : and such was ihe force 
«iid veisaiiliiv of the hard's genius, thai he made the 

.ears run down Mr. S 's cheek, albeit iiiinsed I.i 

the poetic st-ain. " * • From that time we met no 
more, and I was grieved at the reports of him aflrr- 
wards. I oor Hums! we shall iiardly ever see his like 
asaiii. lie ^"xk, in truth, a sort of comet in litera 
.lire, irregular in its motions, which did not do guoil 
proportioned t( the blaze o.''lighl it displayed." 

In the Eiimirier of 1791. two Rr-;"'i»h eenllemen, who 
had hefoie m.^t u-'th him in Kdii.t-.irgh, paid a visit to 
t.-.m at Kllislaud. .')n lallins; at '.he house ihev were 
iiif irmed that he had walked 01. t on the banks of the 
nver ; and dismountinz from their l.crses. the v proceed- 
ed in search of him. On a rock iKil projecleil intothe 
»l.-eam, they saw a man em|)loved in anglinsr, ofa siii- 
f.'.lara|i|.earaiice. lie had a cap ma.le ofa fox's skin 
ou his head, a loose great coal fixed round him bv a 
belt, from which depended an enormous Highland 
oroail sword. It was Rurns. He received Iheiii with 
great ci>rdiality. and asked them to share his humble 
dii.iier— an iuvitatinu which Ihef accepted. On Ihe 
table they found boiled beef, with Tegetables, ami bar 
ley-hroUi, tifler the uiaonei of Scotland, of which they 
parto.ik htartilv. After dinner, the l)ar.! t.ild them iii- 
genuously tli.it he hail ho wtue to offer them, nothing 
be. ler than :!iu'!ilauil whiskey, a bottle of which Mrs. 
Burns set on the hoard, lie produced atthesauif time 
bi:^ puuch-b.nvl ma.le of luvcrary marble : and. mix 
n; the spirit with water ami an" jr, filled iheir glasses, 
and inviteil li.eiu to drink." The travell,-rs wer.j in 
naiite, and besides, the flavour of the whiskey lo their 

* This bowl was made of the lapis ollaris, the stone 
»»f which Inverary-Koiue .t built, the mansion of the 
femily of Argyls. 



touthron palati;s was scarcely tolerable ; bulthn i!Si»- 

erous poet otfered them his best, and his aratnl noi 
pitaliiy they found it impossible lo lesisl. ilnriis wa» 
in his liaopiest mood, and '.he charms of hi.s convi-iaa- 
tion were altogether fascuiating. lie ranaeil over a 

great variety ol topics, Uh tialiug whatever he Kjucii- 

ed. iie related the tales ol his infancy and of his voiitli ; 
he recited some of the gavest and some of the tcnder- 
esl of his poems ; in Ihe'wildesi ol his strains of iiiirih, 
he threw in s.ime touches of meiancholy, and spread 
around him the electric emotions ol hispoweilui mm. I. 
The Highland whiskey iinpioved lulls flavo.ir : the 
marble bowl was again and again emptied and replen- 
ished ; the guests of our poets lorgot the night of 1 une, 
and the dictates of pruiltruce ; at the hour f.f rnidoiiiht 

they lost their way in leiuruing lo Di Vies, and could 

scarcely distinguish it when assisted by the moniius'* 

Besides his duties in the excise and Iiis social idea, 
sures, other circumsiances interfered with the aiicii- 
tioii of Hums to his farm. He eni.'aged in the h.rmatioii 
ofa society for iJuicliMsiug and circulating tiooka 
among the farmers of his uelgldiourhood, of which he 
undertook the mauageuient ;t and he occupied him- 
self occasionally in cumpo.'ing songs for the musi- 
cal work of I\ir. .lohnsou, then in the course »i 
publication. These engagements, useful and hononr- 
ahle in themselves, conii ibiiied, no doubt, lo ihe ab- 
stractiou of his thoughts from tile business of agricul- 
ture. 

The consequences may he easily imagined. Not- 
withsiaiidiuu the uniform prudence and good maiiage- 
meii; of Mrs. Hnrns, and though his lenl was moder- 
ate ami reas'uiahle, our poel fouiirl it conveii'leiil, if not 

ingoccupi'ed it three vears an.l u"h..lf. HisolKcein 
the excise had o:'giually prorlore.l about fifty poimil* 
per annum. Having aciiuitted himself lo the satisfac- 
tion of the hoard, he ha.l been a|)pointeil to a newdis- 
iricl, the emoiiimtiits of which rose to about seventy 
p.Jon.ls pcrannuin. Hoping lo so,, port himself anil 
his familv 00 this humble Inc. one till promo'.ion should 
reacli hi:n. lie .lis|,o-.eil ..fins slock aud of his crop on 
Kllslan.l L"? p.ibhc auction, ami removed to a small 
house winch he had lakeu in Dumfries, about the end 
of the year 1V31 . 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess in social 

1 conslituiion had not suti'ered any per- 
from the irregularities of his coiidnct. 
inptations :o the sin th t so easily beset 
y presented themselves ; and his irregu- 
laritiLS grew l.y degrees into habits. These lempta- 
liuiis unhappily occurred during his engagements in 
the business of bis olfice, as well as during his hours of 
relaxation ; an. I though he clearly foresaw the conse- 
qiiences of yielding 10 them, his appetites and eeiisa- 
tions, which could not prevenl the dictates of his judg- 
ment, finally triumphed over the powers of his will. 
Yet this victoty was not obtained wiihoii! many obsti- 
nate struggles, and at limes temperance and virtue 
seemeil to have obtained the mastery. Besides his 
eiigagrinenls in the excise, and the societv into which 
they led, many circumstances contrihuied t.> the m - 
lancholy fate of Burns. His grrat ceUbrity made him 
an object of interest and curiosity 10 strangeia. ainj 
few peisons of cultivated minds passed Ihrongh Diim 
fries wiiboiit attempliug to see our poet, and to enjoy 
the pleasures of bis conveisatioii. As he could not re 
ceivetliem under his own humble roof, these interviews 
passed at the inns of the town, and olteu termiuated 
in those excesses which liiiins sometimes iirovoked, 



parties, 


liquors, 


'I'uDu'i'nl 


him, coi 



I sel. 



ig II 



ling persons to share his s,,cial pleas. ires ; to lead 
:>.ompauv him lo the tavern; to partake In the 
■si sallies .if his wit : lo witness ihe siren^Oi and 



wild 

ihe degradation of his genius, 



• Given from the information of on* of tht irvuft* 
TSmNo LXXXVIIl. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



37 



8'iiJ., hoxfcBTer, he cultivated the society of persons 
of '.a.s-e and oi regpectability, and in llieir •■.onipany 
eould impose on liiniself li.e restriiinls of temiierancf 
»na decorum. Nor was his muse dormanl. In the lour 
yciiis *hicb he lived in Duml'ries,he produced mariv 
oi' tils beautiful lyrics, ihougli it does not appear that he 
atiempieil any poem of considerable length. During 
this tii'iK he made several excursions into the neigh- 
boLU iiig country, one of which, through Cialloway, an 
account IS preserved in a letter of Mr. Syme, written 
noon after J which, as it gives an animated picture of 
hnn l.y a correct aud masterly liaiid, we shall present 
lo 'he ruader. 

" I soc Burns a gray Highland sheltv to ride on. — 
W'edi'iedthe first day, 27th .luly, 1793, at Glenden- 
wyiiea >l' Harton ! a beautiful situation on the banks of 
the Oee. In the evening we walked out, and ascended 
a gentle eminence, fruiri which we hud as fine a view 
of Alpine scenery .is can well be imagined. A delight- 
ful soft evening showeil all its wilder as well as its 
grainier graces. luuue.llLiicly opposiie, aud within a 
mile of us, We saw Airds, a cimrmiug romantic place, 
where dwell Low, lliH aiitlhi, of M ly wept no more 
forme.' 'Pins was cl.issical ground for Burns. He 
viewed " the highest hill which rises o'er the source 
of Uee" and would have staid till "the passing 
spirit," had appeared, had we not resolved to rcath 
Kruinore that night. We arrived as Mr. and Mrs. 
Gordon were sitting down to supper. 

"Here is a genuine baron's seat. The castle, an 
old building, stands on a Urge natural moat. In front 
Ihe riVer Ken winds lor srvei al miles through the most 
fertile and beautiful hnhiiA till it expands into a lake 
twelve miles long, the banks i,fvvhich, on the south, 
present a line and soft landscape of green knolls, natur- 
al wood, and here aud there agrayrock. Onihe north, 
the aspect is great, wild, and, 1 may say, tremendous. 
Ill short, lean scarcely conceive a sceiie more terri- 
bly romantic than the castle «f Kenmare. BurnsthinkB 
lu Ingldy of it, that he meditates a (lescrijition of it in 
poetry. Indeed, I believe he has '^eguu the work. We 
apeni three days w',h A'r. Gordon, v.huie polished lios- 
pilalilj ij cf an original imt endearing kind. Mrs. 
tiordon's iap d.-,g, fit/: j, was dead. She would have 
■Q epitaph for hir.!. Several had been made. Burns 
was asked for ^ne. This was setting lierculea to his 
disiart', He disliked the subject ; hut to please the lady 
h« would try. here is what he prouuced. 



" In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy lo.ss deplore ! 
Now half extinct your powers of song. 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ve jarring screeching things around. 

Scream your discordant joys ! 
Now hf.'f your din of tuneless song 

With Sc.io silent lies." 

•' We letl Kenmore, and went to Gatehouse, I took 
tlimthe moor-road, where ?avage and desolate regions 
exieniled wide around. The sky was sympathetic 
with the wretcliedness of the foil; it became lowering 

• .\ beautiful and well-known ballad, which begins 
Uiat— 

" The moon had climbed the highest hill, 
Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 

•liid, fi om the eastern summit, shed 
Its silver light on towerand tree. 

\ The level low ground on the banks of a river or 
■tresni. This word should be adopted from the Scot- 
tish as, indeed ought several others of the same na- 
tup«. Ttiat dialect is singularly conious a-nd exact in 
&■ >leBUimimii<.)U3 uf natural •bjecis. S. 



1 . and dark. The hollow winds sighed, tne lightning 
gleamed, the thunder rolled. The j ■■ft enjoyed the 
awful scene — he spoke not a word, but .leerned wrapt 
in meditation. In a little wuile the rain began to full : 
it poured in floods upon us. For three houis did tliu 
wild elements r. mb/< th ir bel/y full upon our de- 
fenceless he^ds. OkJ Oil! 'tw-isfoul. Wegot utterly 
wet ; and to revenge ourselves Burns insicted at Gate 
house on our getting utterly drunk. 

" From Gatehouse, we went next day to Kirkcud- 
bright, through a fine country. But here I must leil 
you that Burns had got a pai'-'of jemmy boots for ihn 
journey, which had "been thoroughly wet, and which 
had been dried in such a manner that it was not possi- 
ble to get them on again. The brawny poet irieil force, 
and tore them to shreds. A whiffling vexation of this 
sort is more trying to the temper than a serious calami- 
ty. We were going lo St. Mary's Ule, the seat of the 
Karl of Selkirk^ and the forlorn Burns was discomfited 
at the thought of his ruined hoots. A sick stomach, 
aud a head ache, lent their aid, and (he man "f vrr'** 
was quite iriscable. I atleinjited to reason with him. 
Mercy on us ' how did he fume with rage ! Noihiug 
could reinstate him in temper. I tried various expedi- 
ents, and at last hit upon one that succeeded. I sliow 
ed him the house of * * *, ?.cross the bay of Wigton. 
Against* * ', with whom he was offended, he ex- 
pectorated his spleen, and regained a most agreeable 
temper. He was in a most epigrammatic humour in- 
deed ! He afterwards fell on humbler game. There 
is one * • • whom he does not love. Hehad a Jjassinu 
blow at him. 

" When , deceased, to the devil went down, 

'Twas nothing would serve him but Spina's own 

crown ; 
Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, thi" crcwn shall wear 

never, 
I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever.'" 

"Well, 1 am to biiiig you to Kirkcudbright slop 
with our poet, without hoots. I carried the torn ruin 
across my saddle in spile of his liilminaiion*, and if 
coiittmiil of ajipearauces ; and what is more, I. ore 
Selkirk carried ihem in his coach lo Dumfries. He in- 
sisted they were worlh mending. 

" Vve reached Kirkcudbright about one o'clock, 
had promised that we should dine with one of the first 
men in our country, J. Dalzell. But Burns was in a 
wild obstreperoMs humour, and swiire he woidd not 
dine where he shcudd he under the smallest restraint. 
We prevailed, therefore, on Mr. Halzell to dine wi:h 
us ill the inn, and had a veiy agreeable party. n 'he 
evening we set out for St. Mary"s Isle. Roherl had 
not ahsolo'ely regained the milkiness of good tempi-r 
aud it oiciured once or twice to him, as he rode along, 
that ."^1. Mary's Isle was ihe seat of a f.,oid ; ^e: that 
Lord was not an aristocrat, at least in the sen;-i of the 
word. We arrived at about eight o'clock, as ihe fand 
ly v/ere al tea andcoftee. St. Mary's isle isone of the 
most delightful places that can, in my o|,inion. he 
foimed by the assemblage of every soft, hut not tame 
object winch consiitutes natural and cultivated 'icau- 
ty. Butnol to dwell on i:s external graces, let me lell 
you that we found all the ladies of the family (all h.-au, 
tiful) at home, and some strangers ; and among oihe' s 
who bin U'bani ! The Italian sung us many Sc:uti<:h 
songs, accompanied with instrymenial music. I he 
two young ladies of Selkirk sung also. We bar! ihe 
•■ong of Lord Gregory, which I asked lor, to have an 
opportunity of calling on Burns to recite /(!.■; hall.nri to 
that tune. He did recite it : and such was the etfVcl 
that a dead silence ensued. It was such a silem-c as 
a mind of feeling naturally preserves when it is loi.-cn- 
ed with that enthusiasm which banishes every oihei 
thought but the contemplalion and indulgence of th 
j sympathy produced. Burn's Lord Oregon; is, in my 
opinion, a most beautiful and uH'eciiug ballad The 
fastidious critic may perhaps say some ol the senti- 
ments and imagery are of too elevated .i kind for such • 
style of sompositlon ; fer iuaiuuce, " Thou bol: othnfr 



:'8 



THE LIFE OF BURMS. 



reii iliat )ja«seat by :" and " Ye, mustering thunder," 
&c. : hut ihis is a cold-blooded objecuon, which will be 
s id rattier than/e/i. 

"We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord Sel- 
kiik's. We had. in every sense ol the word, a least, 
in which our minds and our senses were eqiially grati- 
fied. The pnel was delighted with his coniijany, and 
ac(iniited himself to admiration. Th- lioji that had 
rasjed so violently in the morning, was now as mild 
and gentle as a la'mb. Next day we returned to Dnin- 
fries, and so ends our peregrination. I told you, that 
in the midst of the storm, on the wilds of Kenmore, 
Burns was rapt in meditation. What do you think he 
Was about ? He was charging the English army along 
with Bruce at Banno'-kburn. He was enaaged in the 
game manner on our ride home from St. Mary's Isle, 
and I did not disturb him. Next day he produced me 
•he following adilress of Bruce to his troops, and gave 
me a copy for Dalzell." 

" Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," &c. 

Burns had entertained hopes of promotion in the 
»xci.se , hut circumstances occurred which retarded 
their fulfilment, and which in his own mind, destroy- 
ed all expectation of their being fultilled. The extra- 
ordinary events which ushered In the revolution of 
France, interested the feelings, and excited the hopes 
of men in every corner of Europe. Irejudice and tyr- 
anny seemed about to dispppear from among men, and 
tile day-star of reason to rise upon a benighted workl. 
in the dawn of this heantifnl morning, the genius of 
French freedom appeared on our southern horizon 
with the countenance of an angel, hut speedily assum 
ed liie features of ademoi:, and vanished in a shower 
of blood. 

Though previously a Jacobite and a cavalier, Burns 
had shared in the original hopes entertained of this 
Rsionishing revolution, by ardent and benevolent 
minds. The novelty and the hazard of the atleinpt 
meditated by the First, or Constituent .Assembly. 
served rather, it is probable, to recommend it to liis 
daring temper , and the unfettrred scope propused 
t'j be given to every kind of talents, was doubtless 
gratil'ying to the feelings of conscious but indignant 
genius. Burns foresaw not the mighty ruin that was 
to be the immediate consequence of an enterprise, 
which on its commencement, promised so much hap- 
piness to the human race. And even after the career 
ol guilt and of blood commenced, he could not imme- 
diately, it may be presumed, withdraw his partial 
gaze from a people who had so lately breathed the 
aentimeiits of universal pence and benignity ; or ob- 
liierate in hia bosom the pictures of hope and of hap- 
uiiiess to which those sentiments had given birth. 
Under these impressions he did not always conduct 
himself with the circumspection and prudence which 
his dependant situation seemed to demand. He en- 
gaged indeeil in no popular associations, so common 
at "the time of which we ..peak : but in company he 
did not conceal his opinions of public measures, or of 
the reforms required in the practice of our govern- 
ment ; and sometimes in hia social and unguarded 
moments, he uttered them with a wild and unjnstifia- 
Itie vehemence. Inform.ation of this was given to the 
Board of Excise, with the exaggerations so general 
ill such cases. A superior officer in that department 
Was authorised to inquire into his conduct. I'urns 
defended himself in a letter addressed to one of the 
B.iand, written with great independence of spirit, and 
witn more than ^is accustomed eloquence. The offi- 
cer appointed to inquire into his conduct, gave a fa- 
vourable report. His steady friend, Mr. Graham of 
Fintry, interposed h^s good offices in his behalf ; and 
the imprudent gauger was sufi'ered to retain his situ- 
atiiHi, but given to understand that his promotion 
was deferred, and must depend ou bis future beha- 
viour. 

" This circumstance made a deep impression on 
the mini I of Burns. Fame exaggerateii his miscon 
dufil, and represented him as actually dismissed from 
bit ai£c« ; ucd this rr^part iiWucod a geulieman ^ii 



much respectability to propose a snbscrtption in nj* 
farour. The offer was refused by our poet in a letter 
of great elevation of sentiment, in which he gives stu 
account of the whole of this transaction, and defendi 
himself trom the imputatiiin of disloyal sentiments on 
the one hand, and on the other, Irom the charge ol 
haviiii; made submissions for the sake of his office, uii 
worthy of his character. 

'• The partiality of my countrymen," he observes, 
"has brought me forward as a man of genius, snd 
has given me a character to support. In the poet I 
have avoweil manly and independent sentiments, 
which I hope have been found in the man. Keisoin 
of no less weight than the support of a wife and cliil. 
dren, have pointed out my inesent occiipaiuui as the 
only eligible line of life within my reach. Still my 
honest fame is my dearest concern, and a thuusand 
limes have I trem.hled at the iilea of llie degrading 
epithets that malice or misrepresentation may affix to 
my name. Often in blasiiiig anticipation have I lis- 
tened to some future hackney scribbler, with the 
heavy malice of savage stupidity, exiiltinsly asserting 
that Burns, notwilhstaiidiiig the F infaronnnde of 
independence to be found in his works, and alter ha- 
ving been hehl up to public view, and to public esti- 
mation, as a man of some genius, yet, quite destinite 
of resources within himself to supjiort his borrowed 
dignity, dwindled into u paltry exciseman, and simile 
out the rest of his insigniticani existence in the mean 
est of.pursuits, and among the lowest of mankind. 

" In your illustrious hands. Sir, permit me to lodge 
my strong disavowal and deliance of such slamhroua 
falsehoods. Burns was a poor man from Ins birth, 
and an exciseman by necessity ; but — I will say it I 
ttie sterling of his honest worth poverty could not de- 
base, and his independent British spirit, Ojipressioa 
might bend, but could not subdue." 

Ft was one of the last acts of his life to copy thi» 
letter into his book of mannscripia, accompanied hy 
some additional remarks on the same subject. It it 
not surprising, that at a season of universa! alarm 
for the safety of the consiitniion, the indi«i-reel ex. 
pressions of a man so powerful as Burns, should have 
attracted notice. The limes certainly required ex- 
traordinary vigilance in those intrusted with 'ho 
adminislralion of the government, and to en- 
sure the safety of the constitution was doubt les« 
their first duty. Yet generous minds will lament 
that their mea-iiires of precaution sliould have robbed 
the imagination of our poet ol the last prop on which 
hia hopes of independence rested ; and by embitlerin;; 
his peace, have aggravated those excesses which 
were soon to conduct him to an untimely grave. 

Though the vehemence of Burn^'s temper, increased 
as it often was by stimulating liquors, might lead Inm 
into many improper and unguarded expressio is, 
there seems no reason to doubt of his at'.achment to 
our mixed form of government. In his common- 
place book, where he could have no temptation f. di«- 
g'lise, are the following sentimenls. " Whatever 
might he my senliments of republics, ancient or mod- 
ern, as to Britain 1 ever abjured the idea. A consti- 
tution, which in its original principles, experience ha* 
proved to be every way fitted for our happiness, it 
would be insanity to abandon for an untried visionary 
theory." In conformity to these sentiments, when 
the pressing nature of public affairs ca'.led, in 1795, 
for a general arrning of the [leople, Burns appeared in 
the ranks of the Dumfries volunteers, and employed 
his poetical talents in stimulating their patriotism ; • 
and at this season of alarm, he brought forward » 
hymn, t worthy of the Grecian muse, when Greet* 
was most conspicuous for genius and valour. 

• See Foegu entitled The Dumfries Volunleert, 

t The Song of Death, Foems, p. 83. Thia poem 
was written in 1791. It was printed in Jo/insou'a Mu- 
sic I M seum. The poet had an intention, in tl:* lat- 
ter pan of hia life, of priu'.iug it aeparaivly, tai \» 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



39 



Tho.igh by iiaiiire of an athletic form, BuniB had in 
111 Ins t.>>iisiiltiliM|i ihf prcuhaniies and ilelicucies ihut 
ri-|iiiio K.the tempeiamciit o( genius. h<; was liable, 
f'urn a very early period of life, to lliat interruption in 
Jic prucess of digestion, wliich arises I'roni deep and 
unxioiis thought, and which is sometimes the eflcct 
uii.l soiiiPtirnes the -aiise of depression ol spins. Con- 
iiiiied wiih Ihis disorder of the stomach, there was a 
d -ip-isiiion to head ache, afl'ecting more especially the 
tMiiplesand eyeballs, antl frequently accompanied by 
viijeni and irregular movements of the heart. Ku- 
do ived by nature with great sensibility of nerves, 
Buni» was, in his corporeal, as well as in his mental 
B.'sieni, liable m inordinate imprc?-;=:;a : to fever of 
body as well as ol mind. This predispo'.ition to dis- 
e.ise, which strict temperance in die'., regular exercise, 
a.iil sound sleep, might hive subdued, habi's ol a 
Very ditferent nature s<rengtl>e:ied and inflamed. 
I Hvpetiially stimulated by alcohol in one or other of its 
T.trioos forms, the inordinate actions of the circulating 
system became at length habitual ; the process of 
iiiitritioii was unable to 'npply the waste, and the 
p.iwei-s of life began to fail. Upwards ol a year be- 
loie his death, there was an evident decline in our 
poet's personal appearance ; and though his appetite 
continued unimpaired, he was himself sensible that his 
oijisiitiitioii was sinking, in his moments of thought 
he rcllected with the deepest regret on his fatal pro- 
gress, clearly foreseeing the goal towards which he was 
hasteiiiiig, witnout the stieiigih of mind necessary to 
«iop, or even to slacken his course, his temjier now 
became more irritable and gloomy ; he fled from 
himself into society, otieii of the lowest kind. And in 
such company, that part of the convivial scene, in 
which wine increases sensibility and excites benevo- 
lence, was hurried over, to reach the succeeding part, 
over wliicli uncontrolled passion generally presided, 
ile who siifters '..'le pollution of inebriation, how shall 
he escape oth»r pollution ? But let us refrain from 
the mention .« -jirors over which delicacy and human- 
ity draw the ved. 

In' the midst of all his wanderings, Burns met no- 
thing in his domestic circle but gentleness and for- 
eiveness, except in the giiawings of his own remorse. 
He acknowledged his transgressions to the wife of his 
^osoiii, promised amendment, and again and again re- 
ceived pardon for his ofl'ences. But as the strength 
of his body decayed, his resolution became feebier, and 
habit acquit ed predoininatiiig strengih. 

From October 1795, to the January following, an 
mccidental complaint confined him to the house. A 
lew days after he began to go abroad, he dined at a 
tavern, and returned home about three o'clock, in a 
vtiy Cold morning, benumliea and intoxicated, 'i'his 
Wiis followed by an attack of rheumatism, which con- 
fined him about a week. His appetite now began to 
fail ; his hand shook, and his voice lallered on any 
eAi-rtion or emotion, t.is pul-e became weaker anil 
more rapid, and pain in the larger joints, and in the 
hands and feet, deprived him of the enjoyment of te- 
frrshing sleep. Too much dejected in his spirits, and 
too well aware of his real situation to entertain luipes 
111 recovery, he was ever musing on the approaching 
ilesolaiioii of his family, and his spiritii sunk into a 
unii'orni gloom. 

It washoiiedby some of his friends, that if he could 
five through the mouths of spring, the succeeding sea- 
sun might restore liiin. But they were disappointed. 
The genial beams of the sun iiifused no vigour into his 
Iniisnid frame : the summer wind blew upon hiui, but 
proiluced no retreshmenl. About the latter end of 

r: isic, but was advised against it, or at least discour- 
aged from it. The martial ardour which rose so high 
afterwards, on the threatened invasion, had not then 
dcqui.-ed the tone necessary to give popularity to Ihis 
noble poem ; which to the Kditor, seems more calcu- 
lated to invigorate the spirit of defence, in a season of 
real and pressing danger than any production of 



)un€ he was advised to go Into »he country, aiic) ittv. 
jiatieiit of medical advice, as well as ol every species 
of control, he determined for himself to try tlie eflms 
of bathing in ilie sea. Foi this purpose he took up bis 
residence at Brow, in Annandale, about ten miles 
east of Dumfries, on the shore of the Solway-Firih. 

It happened that at that lime a lady with whom ho 
had been connected in friendship by the sympathies 
of kindred genius, was residing in the inmiediale 
neighbourhood." Being informed of his ni rival, slie 
invited him to dinner, and sent her carriage for him 
to the cottage where he lodged, as he was unable to 
walk. " I was struck," says this lady, (in a confi- 
dential letter to a friend written soon after.) "with 
his appearance on enleriiig the room. The stamp of 
death was imprinted on his features. He seemed al- 
ready touching the brink of eternity. His first saluta- 
tion was, ' Well, Madam, have you any comma ndii 
for the other world.-" i re|:lied, that it seemed a 
doubtlul case which of ns should he there soonest, and 
that I hoped he would yet live to write mv epitaph. 
(1 was then in a had state of health.) he'looked ni 
niy lace with an air of great kindness, and expressed 
his concern at seeing me look so iil, with his accus- 
tomed sensibility. At taiile he ate little or nothing, 
and he complained of having entirely lost the tone ol 
his stomach. We had a long and serious conversation 
about his present situation, and the approaching ter- 
mination of al. nis earthly prospects, he spoke of his 
death without any of tlie ostentation of philosophy, 
but with firmness as well as feeling, as an event likriy 
to happen very soon : and which gave him concern 
chiefly from leaving his four children so young and 
unprotected, and Ins wife in so interesting a situaiioi; 
—in hourly expectation of lying in of a fifth. I e' 
rnentioned, with soeming pride and satislaciion, the 
promising geuiiit. of his eldesl son, ami the fiaticriiig 
marks of ajiprohation he had received fiom his teach- 
ers, and dwell particularly on his hopes of that br.ys 
future conduct and merit, his anxiety for his fiuiiily 
seemed to hang heavy upon him, and the more per- 
haps from the reflection that he had not done them i-ll 
the justice he was so well qualified to do. 1 assiiig 
from this subject, he showed gi-eat conceru about ibe 
care ol his literary fame, and particularly the publica- 
tion of his posthumous works, he said he was well 
aware that his death would occasion some noise, and 
that every sera]) of his writing would be revived 
against him to the injury ol his future reputatioi, ; 
that letters and verses written with unguarded and 
improper freedom, and which he earnestly wislicJ 
to have buried in oblivion, would be handed abiuu by 
idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of h;s re- 
sentment would restrain them, or prevent the cen- 
sures of shrill-tongued malice, or the insidious snr. 
casms of envy, from pouring forth all their venom to 
blast his fame. 

" He lamented that he had written many epigrams 
on persons against whom he entertained no enniiiy, 
and whose characters he should be sorry to wound; 
and many indifierent poetical pieces, which he leared 
would now, with all their imperfections on iheir head, 
be thrust upon the wor4d. On this account he deeply 
regretted having deferred to put his papers In a siaie 
of arrangement, as he was now nuite incapable of the 
exeriion." The lady goes on to mention many other 
topics of a private ncturs on which he spoke. "The 
conversation," she adds, " was kept up with great 
evenness and animation on his side. 1 hud seldom 
Seen his mind greater or more collected. There was 
frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sal- 
lies, and they would probably have had a greater 
share, had not the concern and dejection 1 could not 
disguise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed 
not unwilling to indulge. 

" We parted about sunset on the evening of thai 
day (the 5th July, 1796 ;) the next day 1 saw him again, 
and we parted to meet no more !'" 

• For a character of this lady, sen letter, No. CX21 
IX. 



40 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



A'. fir»i Burin l:'iagiiied bBthiiig in ttie «ea naa been . Of ihis gum, the part expemled on his library (which 
of bt-iielil lo hiiii : ilie pains in his limbs were re- I was I'ar trum exteiisive) aim in ihu humble luinilure oi 
liovtii ; but this was immedialely Ibllowed by a new his house, remained ; and obiiealions wrre lou.id lor 
aitaok or lever. Wiiei: lirought back to las own hoiue two hundred pounds advanced by him lo the assist- 
in iJi.rntVies, on the laihol July, he was nu longer able ance ol those lo whom he was united by the ties o' 
lo strtiid upriglit. At lliis lime a tremor per/ided his I blood, and still moie by those of esteem and atiection. 
liauie : his lonEue was parched, and his mind sunk When it is considered, that his expenses in Kdinburoh 
inio delirium, when not roused by conversation. On and on his various journeys, could nut be inconsidera- 
tlic seciuul and tliirci day ilie lever increased, and his ble ; that his agricultural undeilaking was unsuccesa- 
itrenitli diiniiiisiied. On the fourth, the sufferings of I ful ; that his income Irom the excise was tor some 
tins yreal but dilated genius, were lerminaled ; and I time as low as filly, and never rose to above Severn* 
a lite was cKised in wliicli virtue and passion had beeu pounds a year ; that his family was large, and ht'i 



a: pHipeiual variance.* 

Tbi death of Burns made a strong and general im- 
pression on all who had interested themselves ;.". his 
character and especially on the inhahilants of the 
lown aiidcuiiniy In which he had spent the latter years 
of l]is life. Flagrant as his follies and errors had been, 
lliey had not deprived him of the resjiect and regard 
eHlrrcaiued for the exiraordiiiary powers of his genius, 
an^l the generous qiialitifS of his heart. The (jeiitle 
mail Volunteers ol i^iiml'ries determined to bury their 
iilosiriuus ussociate with military honours, and every 
preiiiiraiioii was made to render this last service sol- 
eiiui dijii iiiiprtssive. 'I'he Feiicible Infantry of Angiis- 
sluif , iuicl tile legiment of cavalry of the Cinque i orts, 
aiilj.it tune quartered in iJumlries, ottered their as- 
sist luce on tills occasion the princi|jal inhabitants of ilie 
town and neishhourliood delcrinined to walk in the tu- 
ne imi ,/ioccssion ; and avast concourse of persons as- 
teinl.icil, some of them ata considerable distance, to wit 
ness Jic obsequies ol the Scottish Bard. On the eve- 
nui;; of the 25th of July, the remains of Burns were 
removed from his house to the 'I'own-Hall, ana the 
funeral look place on the succeeding day. A parly of 
Vwlunieers, selected to perform Ihe military duty in 
the church yard, stationed themselves in the from of 
the procession, with their sirms reversed; the main 
body of (he corps surrounded and eupporled the Coltiii, 
on which Were placed the hat and sword of llieir fiieinl 
and lellow-solilier ; the numerous body of attendants 
ranged themselves in the rear ; while the Fencible re- 
giments ofiniantry and cavalry lined the streels from 
the I'uwii i!all to'lhe burial ground in the Soniherii 
Church-yard, a distance of more than hall a mile. 'J'lie 
wliole procession moved forward lo that sublime and 
art'ccting strain of music, the Dend March in Saul ; and 
liuee Volleys fired over liis grave, marki-d the return of 
Burns to his parent earth ! The spectacle was in a 
high degree gland and solemn, and acr.urded A-ith the 
general sentimeiils of sympathy ami surf ow which the 
occasion had called tor'th. 

Il wa^ an aSemng circumstance, mat, on the morn 
in^ of ilie day of her husband's luneral, Mis. Burns I 
Was iinilergoing the pains of laboui ; and that during 
the solemn Service we have just been describing, the 
posthumous son of our poet was born. This infant 
b.iy, who receiveil the name of Maxwell, was not des- 
tined lo a long life. He has already become an iiihab- 
l.im ol the .same grave with his celebrated father. The 
!"ur other childriii of our poet, all sons, (the eldest at 
thai time aboui ten years ol age) Vtt survive, and give 
every promise of pruileiice and virtue that can be eX- 
peeled huiii iheM-icuitcr years. They remain under 
the caiv ol iheir arteclijuaie mother in Dumfries, and 
roiovi.ii; Ihc means of education which ihe excellent 

their tuiul.ict lo the chlhiren ol Burns, do ihemselves 
gr,-.ii li,,iu.ur. On this occasion the name of Mr. V\ hyte 
deserves lo be particularly mentioned, himself a poet, 
as well as a man of science.! 

Burns dieo ir. great poverty ; Out the independence On the death of Btirna the inhabitant.* ot Dii.T.friea 
of liissijint and the exemplary prudence of hiS wife and its neighbourhood opefied a nlb^;crlplion for •!•.• 
had iirescrved him from debt. He had received from I sup|iorl of his wile and family ; and Mr. Miller. Mr 
Ins poems a clear profit of about nine hundred pounds. I M Mindo, Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syme, and Mr. C un- 

. ,,,, . , .,, ... . j ningham,genlleinen ol (he first respectability, beLama 

* I he particulars respecting Ine illness and death of = '» 

Barns, were obligingly furnished by Dr. Maxwell, the ] • The letter of Mr. Graham, alluded to above, is dot- 
pjjysician who aitended him. ; ^d on the I3th of luly, and prohably arrived on the :5th. 

' Author ot "St. Guerdon's Well," a po«m; and i Burns became delirious nu the 17- h or .Slh and ai«i 
«( ' AT. i'««it« It Ok! MwBsly •( Burjta " i •» lUeiU*. 



spirit liberal — no one will be surprisefl that his cir- 
cumstances were so poor, or that, as his healih de- 
cayed his proud and feeling heart sunk under the se- 
crei consciousness of indigence, and the apprehensiong 
of absolute want. Yei poverty never bent the spirit of 
Burns to any pecuniary meanness. Neither chicanery 
norsordidness ever appeared in his conduct, flc car- 
ried his disregard of money to a blameable excess. 
Kven in the midst of distress he bore him.sell loliily to 
the world, and received with a jealuug reluctance every 
ofter of Iricndly assistance. His printed poems had 
jirocured him great celebrity, and ajiisl and lair re- 
compense for the latier ofispring of his pen might have 
produced him considerable emolument. In the Year 
1793, the Editor of a London newspaper, high in lis 
character for literature, and independence of senii- 
meiit, made a proposal to him that he should iurni.sh 
them, once a week, with an arliclelfer their poetical 
department, and receive from therna recomptnsr ol 
filly-two guineas per annum ; an ofl'er which his pride 
of genius disdained to accept. Yet he had for several 
years furnished, and was at that lime rurnishing, the 
i\fi.«ei.OT of Johnson with his beautiful lyrics, without 
lee or reward, and was obslinalely refusing all rtconi 
peiiSH for his assistance lo the greater work of Mr 
Thomson, which the justice and generosity of ihai gen- 
tleman was pressing upon him. 

The senseof his poverty, and of the approach.ng dis- 
tress of his infant family', j.ressed heavily oi. Burns ai 
he lay on the bed of death. Vet he alluded to his indi- 
gence, at times with something appr..aching to hit 
wonted gayety. — " What business," said he lo Dr. 
MaxweM, who attended him with thfi utmost real, 
" has a physician to waste his lime on me ^ I am a 
poor pigeon, not worth |)liickiug. Alas! I have not 
feathers enough upon me to carry me ti n.y grave " — 
And when his reason was lost in delirium his idfas 
ran in the same melancholy train ; the honors .if 4 
jail were conlimially present to his trmibled imagi 
nation, and piodi-ced the most afi'ecling exctumaiioiK. 

A» for some months previous to his death he had 
been incapable of the duties of his office. Burns di call- 
ed that his salary slinuld be reduced one half as is usu- 
al in such cases, his full eniolomeiils were, however, 
continued 10 him by the kindness of Mr. Stobbie a 
young expeciaiit in Ihe Kxcise, who performed me 
duties of his office wiihoul fee or reward; and All . 
Graham of Finny, hearing of his illness, though iinac 
quainted with ils dangerous nature, made an oflei ot 
his assistance towards procuring him the means ol 
prese.ving hisheaiih. Whatever might be the faults 
of Burns, ingratilode was i.ot of the number. — 
Amongst his manuscripts, various proofs are ffiiind of 
the Sense he enlertaiiied ol Mr. Graham's friendship, 
which delicacy towards that gentleman has induced 
us lo suppress ; and on this la.il occasion there is no 
doubt that his heart overflowed towards him, though 
he had no longer ihe power oi expreising hii feel 
ins*." 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



41 



tritxleK for i)ie apjjilcattoii of the money to ill proper 
olijeCU. riie suuiicnplioii wa* exiended lu ulher pHrlsi 
of ScutUiiiJ iiiitl of Kiiglaiicl alao, particularly IjOiictoii 
•11(1 Liveqioul. By this means a sum was raised a- 
moiiiiliiig III sever. Iiuiidreil pounds ; and thus ilie wid- 
ow and cliildren were rescued from immediate distress, 
Knd the mos: melancholy of the forebodings uf Burns 
htt(ipily d.sappointed. J I is true, tl:is sum, thuush 
«(iual to their present support, is insumcieiii to secure 
iliem i'rom future penury. Their hope in regard lo iVi- 
tunty depends on the lavourabie receptijii of these 
Yulumes from the public at large, in the pruiiioliiig ol 
Vtiiich the candour and humanity of the reader may in- 
duce liim lu lend his 



durns, as has already been mentioned, was nearly 
nve feet ten inches ni height, and of a form that inai- 
waied ayiliiy as well as strength. His well-raised fore- 
head, Shaded with biacK curling liair, indicated exten- 
sive caprtcity. iiiseyes were large, dark, full of ardour 
and iinelligence. nis face was well formed ; and his 
coiinteiiaiice uncommonly intciesling and expressive. 
tiU mode of dressing, which was odeii slovenly, and a 
(.eriaiii fuiness and ben<l in his shoulders, characteris- 
tic of his original profession, disguised in some degree 
tlie natural symmetry and elegance of his form. 'J'he 
external appearance of Burns was most strikingly in- 
dicative of the character of his mind. On a first view 
Ills physiognomy had a certain air of coarseness, ming- 
led, however, with an expression of deep penetration 
■ lid ot calm thoughttulness, approaching lo melan- 
choly. I'here apiit-aied in his fiist manner and ad- 
dress, perleci ease aud self possession, tiul a stern and 
almost supercilioux elevitiion, nut, indeed, incoinpau- 
ble with openiiess and atiiiliiaiy, wliicii, howevei , be- 
tpoke a mind conscious of superior talents. Strangers 
that supposed themselves appr oachiiis; an Ayrshire 
peasant who could make rhymes, and to whom ilieir 
uoticc was an honour, found themselves speedily over- 
awed by tlie presence of a man who buic InmseU with 
tligniiy , and who possessed a singular power ol con ect- 
ing forwardness, and ol repeUing inliusion. but 
though jealous of the respect due to himself, Burns 
never enforced it where he saw it was willingly paid ; 
and though inaccessible to the approaches of pride, he 
was open to every advance of kindness and ol benevo- 
lence, ilis dark and haughty countenance easily re- 
laxed into a look of good-will, of pity, or of leiiderness ; 
and, as the various emotions succeeded each other in 
his mind, assumed with ecjiial ease the expression ot 
the broadest humour, of the inosi extravagant mirth, 
of the deepest melancholy, or of the most sublime 
emotion. The tonesof his voice happily coriesponueil 
with the expression of his leaiures, and with the fee- 
lings ofhis mind. When to these eudowments are .-id- 
det! a rapid and distinct apprehension, a must pow- 
erful understanding, and a happy command of lan- 
guage— of strength as well as brilliancy or' expression 
— we shall be able to accounl for the extra- 
ordinary attractions of ins conversation — for the sor- 
Cei-y which in his sociai parties he seemed to exer', on 
all around him. In the company of wumen this sorce- 
ry was more especially apparent. 'I'licir presence 
charmed the fiend ol melancholy in his bosom, and 
awoke his. happiest feelings ; it cxciied the powers o'' 
Ins fancy, as well as the tenderness of his heart ; and, 
by restraining the veheineuce and the exuberance of 
hia lan^ua) e, at times gave to his manners the impres- 
•ionof tasie.and even of elegance, which in thecompa- 
livuf men ihey seldom possessed. This influence was 
lloubtless reciprocal. A Scottish l^ady, accustomed 
.o ihe best society, declared with characteristic nrdut^;; 
ihal no man's conversation ever curried herself -so 
completely o^f her feet as that of Burns ; and an Eng- 
lish La<ly, familiarly acquainted with several of the 
ni'.^t distinguished characters of the present times, as- 
sured the Editor, that in the happiest of her social 
liours. there was a charm about Burns which she hid 
never seen ^•^ualled. This charm arose not more from 
the power than the versatility of his genius. No Ian 
guor could be fell in the society of a man who passed 
at pleasure from gravt lo gay, from the auficrous to 
the pathetic, from the simple lo the iublime ; who 
wielded all his faculties with equal "trenstli and ease, 
B.'id never failed to imuress the nffspniig of bis fancy 
vi-iii llio slump of ills and^^rstaHdiitg 



Tills indeed, ia to represent Uuri-.s in hiK tiapiiicut 
phLsis. Ill large and mixed partie^i he was often si- 
lt iii and dark, siimeiimes fierce and ovei bearing ; he 
was jealous of the proud man's scorn, jealous to un 
extieme of '.he insolence of weallh, and prone tc 
Jiveiige, even on itsinnoceiil possessoi , the partiality o 
fortune. By nalure kind, brave, sincere, uml in a sin- 
gulaitlegree compassionate, he was on the other lianil 
proud, iiascil)le, and vindicative, his virtues and hi 
failings had their origin in the exlraordiiiaiy sensibili- 
ty of Ilia mind, and equally paitook of the dulls and 
glows of senlimenl. fiis friendships were liaUle lo iii- 
lerruplion from jealousy or disgust, and his eiimiliea 
died away under the influence of jiity or st If accusa- 
tion. Ills understanding was equal to the uih^r pow- 
er3 ofhis mi|id, and his deliberale opinions wire siugu- 
larly candid and just J but, like other men i^l t:ira'. a:id 
irregular genius, the opinions which he deiiveied in 
conversation were ollen the ort's[iring of tempuiary 
feelings, and widely ditierent from the calm decisions 
of his judgment. Tins was noi merely true re- 
specting the characters of others, but in legard to 
Suine of the most important points of liiiinan spec- 
ulation. 

On no subject did he give a more striking prgof of tho 
strength of his understanding, than in ihe collect esti- 
mate he formed of himself, i le knew his own failings ; 
he ,r;;eilicied tlieir consequence ; the melancholy fore- 
boding was never long absent from his mind ; yet hil 
passions carried him down the stream of error, and 
swept him over the precipice he saw direcuyin his 
course. The fatal delect in his character fay in ihs 
the comparative weakness ofhis volition, that superior 
faculty of the mind, which governing the cniidiicl ac- 
cording lo the dictates of the understanding, alone en- 
titles ii to be denominated rational ; which is ihe i.a- 
renl of fortitude, patience, and self-denial; which, by 
regulating and combining human exeruons, may be 
said tu have efl'ected all that is great in the works of 
man, m literalure, in science or on the face ot nature. 
I'he occupations nf a poet a.e not calculated to 
strengthen the governing powers of the mind, or to 
Weaken ihal sensibility which reinires perpetual con- 
trol, since it gives birth to vehemence of passion as 
well as to the iiigher powers ol imagination. Upforlu- 
iiately the favorite occupations of genius are calciilat- 
ed 10 increase all ils peculiarities; lo nourish thai 
lofty priile which disdains the littleness of prudence, 
and the '-estnctions of order : ani". by indulgence, to in- 
crease that sensibility which, in the present form of 
our existence, is scarcely compatible with peace or hap- 
piness, even when accompanied with ihe choicest gifti 
of loriiine 1 

It is observed by one who was a friend and associaia 
of Burns.' and vvho has conteinplaled aud explained 
the system of animated nature, tiiat no seiitieiiL being 
wilh meiitai powers erpatly si'perinr to those of men, 
could possibly live and be happy in this world—' if 
such a being really existed " continues he, " fia 
misery woukUbe extreme. With senses more deliiaie 
and refined ; wilh perceiJlioiis mure acute and pene- 
traliiig ; with a taste so exquisite that the objeris 
around him wnold by no means gratify il ; ol)lit!ed 

to feed f ouiishnieut loo gross lor his frame; he 

rrtuol be born only to he miserable ; and the continu- 
ilioii ot his exisieiice would he iillerly impossible. 
Even ill our present coiKlilioii. the samene»s and the 
insijiiditv of objects and pursuit*, the futiliiy .if 
plet sure, and the iritiuite sourrex ..| excruciating pam, 
are supported wilh creat difiicoliy by cultivated and 
refined minds. Increase our aensibiliiies, continue 
the same objecis and situation, and no man could 
b3ar to live." 

Thus It appears, that our powers of sensation a.% 
well as all our other powers, are adapted to the siene 
ot our existence ; .hat they are limited in mercy, a» 
well as in wisdom. 

The speculations of Mr. Smellie are not to be eon- 
Bidered as the dreams of a theorist ; ihey were prob^ 

• Swellie— S»e his " Philosophy of Natural tUalory.' 



42 



THE LIFE OF BLRNS. 



Uy founiietl on sail exjjerience. The beini; he •«p- 
{joses, "with seiisesi inoic deiiraie and I'eiined, \.itli 
Vt-rceptioiis more acute and penetrating," ia to be 
found in real life. He is of the temperament of 
genius, and peihaps a poet. lathere, then, no remedy 
for this inordinate fensibilily ? Are there no means 
by wliich the liappiness of one so constitiued by nature 
may be consulted ? I erhaps it will be found, that 
regular and consiant occupation, irksome though it 
may at first be, is the true remedy. Occupation in 
which the powers of the underslandir.g are exercised, 
will diminish the force of external impressions, and 
keep the imagination under 



That the bent of every man's mind should be fol- 
lowed ill his education and in his destination in life, 
is a maxim which has been often repealed, but which 
cannot be admitted, without many reslrictions. It 
may be generally true when applied to weak minds, 
which being capable of little, must be encouraged and 
strengthened in the feeble impulses by which that lit- 
tle is produced. But where indulgent nature has be- 
stowed her gifts with a liberal hand, the very reverse 
of this maxim ought frequently to be the rule of con 
duct, hi minds of a higher order, the object of in- 
etrucliovi and of discipline is very often toresUaiu, 
rather than to impel ; to curb the impulses of imagi- 
nation, so thai the passions also may be kepi under 
coutrcl.* 

Hence the advantages, even in a moral point of 
»iew, of stuiiies of a severer nature, Which while they 
inform the understanding, employ the volition, that 
reijulating power of the mind, which, like all our oili- 
er faculties, is strengthened by exercise, and un llie 
Buperioriiy of which, viriue, happiness, and hououra- 
ble lame, are wholly (lependiiul. liencenlso the ad- 
Tauiaae of regular and consiant application, which 
aids the voluntary power by the product! m of habi'.s 
■o necessary to the siipporl of order and viriue, audso 
diliicuk lo be formed in the temperament of geiuug. 

The man who is so endowed and so '•egnlaled. may 
pursue his course with confidence in almuol any of the 
Various walks of life which choice or accident shall 
open to him; and, provided he employs the talents 
he has cuhivated, may hope for such imperfect happi- 
ness, and such limited success, as are reasonably lo be 
txpecied from human exertions. 

The pre-eminence among men, which procures per- 
sonal respect, and which terminates in lasting reputa- 
tion, is seldom or never obtained by the excellence of 
a single faculty ot mind. Kxperience teaches us, that 
it has been acquiied by those only who have possessed 
the comprehension and the energy of general talents, 
and who have regulated their application, in the line 
which choice, or perhaps accident, may have deter- 
mined, by the dictates of their judgmenl. Imagination 
is supposed, and with jn»tice, lo be the leading faculty 
of the poet. IJut what poet has stood the test of tiipe 
by the force of this single faculty ? Who does not see 
lliai Homer and Shakspeare eiccelled the rest of their 

* Cliiinctihan discusses the important question, 
whether the heiit of the individual's genius should be 
followed in his eduGation {an secundum sui guisgue 
insenii docendus sit naturam,) chiefly, indeed, with a 
reference to the orator, but in a way that admits of 
very general application. His conclusions coincide 
very much with those of the text. " An vero Isocra- 
tescum de Ephoroatque Theopompo sic judicaret, ul 
alteri frenis, alleii calcaribus opus esse diceret ; aut 
in illo lenliore tardilatem, aul in illo pene pracipiti | 
concitationem adjuvandum docendoexistimavit ? cum | 
allcruin alterius nalura miscenduin arbilrareiur. Im- j 
becillis tamen ingeniis sane sic obsequendum, sit, ut | 
Nullum Ul id quo vocal nalura, ducautur. llaeniro, 
^uod ftohim poBsuni, melius efficient.' ' 

linn. Orator, lib.ji. 9. 



species in undersia.iding a« wtJl *t in ifnaginatlon | 
that they were preeminent in the highest specie* of 
knowledge— the knowledge of the naiuie and charac- 
ter jf man .;> On the other hand, the talent of ratioc- 
nation is more especially requisite to the urainr ; but 
no man ever obtained ih'e palm of oratory, even by the 
highe.n sxcellente in this single talent. Who docs not 
perceive that Demosilieues and Cicero were not more 
happy in their addi esses to the reason, than in their ap- 
peals to the passions.'' They knew, that to excite, 
to agitate, and to delight, are among the most potent 
arts of persuasion ; and they enforced their impres- 
sion on the understanding, by their command ot all 
the sympathies of the liearl. 'I'hese observations 
might be extended to other walks of life. He who haa 
the faculties fitted to excel in poetry, has the faculties 
which, duly governed, and differently directed, might 
lead to pre eminence ill oilier, and, h» far as ies|iects 
himselt, perhaps in happier deslinali.mi!. The talents 
necessary to the construction of an Iliad, under difier- 
ent discipline and application, might have led jniiies 
to victory, or kingdoms to prosperity ; might h^-ve 
wielded the thunder of eloquence, i>r diiicovei ed jiid 
enlarged the sciences that coiisliuue tin- power and 
improve the condition of our species.* Such lalints 

* The reader must not supposr it is contended 
that the same individual could iiave excelled in all 
these direciion.s. A certain dtgree of insimtiiun and 
practice is necessary to excellence in every one, .Tiid 
life is too short to admit of one man, however great 
his talents, acquiring this in all of them. It is only 
asserted, that the same talents, difl'erently applied, 
might have succeeded in any one, though perhaps, not 
equally well in each. And, after all, this position re- 
quires certain limiiations. which the reader's candour 
and judgment will supply. lu supposing that a g'eat 
poet might have made a great orator, the physical 
qualities necessary to oratory are pre-»opposeil. In 
supposing that a great oiaior might have made n great 
poet, il is a necessary condition, that he should have 
devoted himself to poetry, and that he should have ac- 
quired a proficiency in metrical numbers, which by 
patience and aiiention may be acquired, thoueh the 
want of it has embarrassed and chilled many of th» 
first efforts of true poetical genius. In supposing that 
Homer might have led armies to victory, more indeed 
is assumed than the physical qualities of a general. 
To these must be added that hardihood of mind, that 
coolness in the midst of diffic-jliy and danger, which 
great poets and orators are found sometimes, but not 
always to possess. Tlie nature of the iiistltutions of 
Greece and Rome produced more instances of single 
iiidividuala who excelled in various departments ul 
active and speculative life, than occur in modern Eu- 
rope, where the employments of men are more subdi- 
vided. Many of the greatest warriors of antiquity 
excelled in literature and in oratory. That they !;ad 
the mz/irfs of great poets also, will be admitted, wlieo 
the qualities are justly appreciated which are necessa- 
ry to excite, cuinliine, and command the active ener 
gies of a great hotly of men, to rouse that enthusiasra 
which sustains fatigue, hunger, and the incleinencie* 
of the elements, and which triumphs over the fear of 
death, the most powerful instinct of our nature. 

Theaulhovity of Cicero may be appealed to in fa- 
vour of the close connexion between the poet and lh« 
orator. £4-/ eni^ finiiimus oratori poeta, iiumerii 
adstrictior paulo, vrborum autem licentia liberior, 
^c. OeOratore, Lab. i. c. 16. Sea also Lib. iii. ft 



THE LIFE CF BURNS. 



« 



•f«, inJeed, rare araon; the productions of nature, 
•lid occ'dsiuiis^ut' bringing thein into full exertion are 
rarer siill. But safe and salutary occupaiions may 
De fojnd for men of genius in every direction, wliile 
»he useful and ornamenial arts remain to be cultiva- 
te(i, while the sciences remain to be studied and to be 
extended, and principles of science to be applied to tlie 
correction and iinprovemeul of art. In llie lempera- 
ment of sensibility, which is in truth the temperament 
of general talents, the principal object of disciplnie and 
instruction is, as has already been mentioned, to 
Btienztheji the self-cminnaiid ; and this may he pro- 
moted by the direction of the studies, more effectually 
perhaps than has been g nerally nndcrstood. 

If these observations be fminded in truth, ihey may 
lead to practical consequences of some importance. Jt 
has been so much the custom to consuler the posses- 
sion of poetical talents as exclmling the possibility of 
application to the severer brajiches of study, as in 
some ilegree incapacitating the possessor from attain- 
ing those habits, and from bestowing that attention, 
which are necessary to success in t!ie details of busi- 
ness, and m the engagements of active life. It has been 
common (or persons conscious of talents, to look with 
a auri of disdain on other kinds of intellectual excel- 
lence, and to consider themselves as in some degree 

7. — ft is true the example of Cicero may be quoted 
against his opinion. His attempts in verse, which are 
praised by Plutarch, do not seem to have met the an- 
probalion of Juvenal, or of some others. Cicero pr j- 
bably did net take sufficient time to learn the art of 
the poet ; but that he had the ajflatus necessary to 
poetical excellence, may be abundaplly proved from 
his compositions in prose. On the other hand, nothing 
is more clear, than thai, in the character of a great 
poet, all the mental qualities of an orator are inclu- 
ded. It is said by duinctilian, of Homer, Omnitzis 
eloguenticB ptu'Hbus exsmplum el ortum dedit. Lib. 
i. 47. The study of Homer is therefore recommended 
to the orator, as of the first importance. Of the two 
sublime poets in our own language, who are hardly 
inferior to Homer, Shakspuare ana Milton, a similar 
recommendation may be given. It is scarcely neces- 
sary to mention how much an acquaintance with them 
has availed the great orator who is now the pride and 
ornament of the English bar, a character ihat may be 
appealed to with singular propriety, when we are 
contending for the universality of genius. 

The identity, or at least the great similarity, of the 
talents necessary to excellence in poetry, oratory, 
painting, and war, will be atlmiited by some, who 
will be inclined to dispute the extension of the position 
to science or natural knowledge. On this occasion I 
may quote the following observations of Sir William 
Jones, whose own example will however far exceed in 
weight the authority of his precepts. " Abul Ola had 
so flourishing a reputation, that several persons of un- 
common genius were ambitious of learning the art of 
poetiy from so able an instructer. His most illustri- 
ous scholars were Teleki and Khakaui, who were no 
less eminent for their Persian compositions, liian for 
their skill in every branch of pure and mixed mathe- 
matics, and particularly in astronomy ; a striking 
proof that a sublime poet may become master of any 
kind of le.irning which he chooses to (irofess ; since a 
jfine imagination, a lively wit, an easy and copious 
style, cannot possibly obstruct the acquisition of any 
science whatever ; but must necessarily assist him in 
flis studies, and shorten his labour." — Sir Wiiliam 
lunet^t Workt, vol. u.p. 317. 



absolved from those rules of pru<fence ty which bnin> 

bier minds arc restiicted. 'I hey are toe much dispos. 
ed 10 abandon themselves to i heir own sensHiiona and 
to sillier lile to pass away without regular exerlious or 
settled purpose. 

But though men of genius are ftenerally prone to in- 
dolence, with them indolence and uijlmppniess are in 
a more especial manner allied. The unbuUleii splen- 
dours of imagination may indeed at times iriiuliaic the 
gloom which inactivity produces ; but such visions, 
though blight, are tiansient, aiul serve to cast the re- 
alities of life into a deeper sha-.le. In tiestowing great 
talents. Nature seems very generally to have iiiiiiosed 
on the possessor the necessity uf exerticm, il he would 
escape wretchedness. Belter for hiiii ilian slolli, toils 
the most painful, or adventures the inusl hazardous. 
Happier to him than idleness, were the conditmn of 
the peasant, earning with incessant labour his scanty 
food ; or that of the sailor, though hanging on the yard- 
arm, and wrestling with the hurricane. 

The observations might be amply illustrated by the 
biography of men of genius of every deiioiniiiaiion, and 
more especially by the biography of the poets-. t)f this 
last description of men, few Seein lo have enjoyed ihe 
usual portion of happiness thwl falls to the lo'l uf hu- 
manity, those excepted who have cultivated poetry as 
an elegant amusement in the hours of relaxation from 
other occupations, or Ihe s-nall niiinber who have en- 
gaged with success in the greater or more arduous at- 
tempts of the muse, in which all the faculties of ihe 
mind have been fully and permanentiy employed. — 
Even taste, virtue, and compaiative independence, do 
not seem capable of bestowing on nieu uf geiiiu.*, jjeace 
and tranquillity, without such occupation as may give 
regular and lieallhful exercise to the laculties of body 
and iniiid. The amiable Shenstone has left us the re- 
cords of his imprudence, of his indolence, and of his 
unhappiness, amidst the shades of the l.easowes ;* 
and the virtues, ihe learning, and the genius of Gray, 
•equal lo the loftiest alienipis of the epic muse, failed 
to procure him in the academic bowers of Cambridge, 
thai tranquillity and ihal respeci which less fastidi 
ousness of taste, and greater constancy and vigour of 
exertion would have doubtless obtaliied. 

It is more necessary that men of genius should b« 
aware of the importance ot self command and of exer 
tion, because tiieir indolence is peculiarly exposed, 
not merely lo unhappiness, but to diseases of mind, and 
lo errors of conduct, which are generally fatal. I'liia 
iiueresling subject deserves a parlicnlarinvestigalioii ; 
but we must content ourselves with one or two cursory 
remarks. Relief is sometimes sotighl from ihe melan- 
choly of indolence ill practices, which for a time sooih 
anil gratify ihe seiisaiioiis, but which in the end in- 
volve the sufferer ill darker gloom. To command the 
external circumstances by which happiness is etl'ectcd, 
is not in human power ; but there are various sub- 
stances in nature which operate on the system of the 
nerves, so as to give a ticliiious gayety to the ideas of 
imagination, and lo alter the effect of the exiernal 
impressions which we receive. Opium is chiefly em- 
ployed for this purpose by the disciples of Mahomet 
and the inhabiianis of Asia ; but alcohol, the principle 
of inioxication in vinous and spirituous liquors, is pre- 
ferred in Kurope, and is universally used in the Chris- 
tian world.* Under the various wounds lo which iiv- 

* See his Letters, which, as a display of the effects 
uf poetical idleness, are highly instructive. 

t There are a great number of other substances, 
which may be considered under this point of view. 
Tobacco, tea, and coffee, are of the number. These 
substances essentially differ from each other in their 
qualities ; and an inquiry into the particular eflects 
of each on the health, morals, and happiness of those 
who use them, would be curious and useful. The ef- 
feas of wine and of opium on the temperament and 
Musibility, tbe Editor iateoded to bava discusseU ia 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



do.eui aeiisibilUy Is exposed, and under tiie gloomy 

ajj(iiei!cii3i ii;s r-.-spbCUii- luii.rity lo wliicli ii is uUeu a I 



" Klysium upeaa round, 
A ijleiisiii5lVeiizy uuoys llie liglileu'd soul, 
Ami siia^iiiiie liupes diaiicl yuur tireliiig care ; 
Aua wliat was daticidl, and what was dn-e, 
"1 lelds !o j'our prowess, and superior stars : 
Tile happiest you of all that e'er were mad, 
Or are, or sliall be, could this lolly last. 
Bui soon your lieaven is gone j a heavier gloom 
Shuts o'er your head 



Morning comes ; your cares retnrn 

VVuli leu lold rage. An anxious stomach well 
May be endured ; so may the throbbing head : 
tjut such a dimdelirium ; such a dream 
Involves you ; suth a dastaritly despair 
Unmans yoiirsoul, as m^d'niug . entheus felt, 
When, bailed round Cillixrun's cruel sides. 
He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend." 

Aimstrong'a Art oj Prcneroing Health. 

Such are the pleasiirea and the pains of intoxicalion, 
• s lliey occur m tlie lemperamcnt of sensibihiy, lies 
crihttd by a genuine ()oel, with a degree ol truth and 
energy which uolhuifibut'Bxperieiicc could have dicta- 
led. Tliei-c aie, iudeeil, some individuals of this tein- 

encj. Oil some, even in veiy niuderale qiiiinulies, il» 
ertectsaie paiufiilly iirilaiiug ; in lar^e drau^lits it ex- 
cites ilarK and mel'aiicliuly i.leas : iiiid ni ill au^hls still 
larger, the lierceiiess ot nisaiiiiy ilseif. Such men are 
ha|i,jily eXeiii|acd liuiii a teinplatiuii. to wliicll expe- 
ritiice Leaches us the finest disijojilioiu often yield, and 
theiiirtiu-iice of which, when strengthened by habit, it 
U a iimmlialiii^ iruih, that the must powerful minds 
have uui been able to resist. 

this place at some length ; but he found the subject too 
extensive and ton professional to be introduced with 
proiiiieiy. Thedilhculty of abandoning any of these 
ii;ircotics (if we may so term them,) when inclination 
is slren^ihened by habit, is well ki.owii, Johnson, in 
his di?iicsscs, had experienced the chceriusbnt treach- 
erous inrtuence of wine, and by a powerful effort aban- 
doned it. He was obliged, however, to use lea as a 
substitute, and this was the solace to which he con- 
stantly had recourse under his habitual melancholy. 
The pnuses of wine form many of ihe most beautiful 
lynci of the poets of Greece and Rome and of modern 
Kiirupe. Whether opium, which produces visions still 
mure ecstatic, hag been the theme of the eastern poems, 

Wiue is drunk in small quantities at a time, in 
company, where, for a lime, it promotes harin.uiy 
an I social alicclion. Opium is swallowed by the 
Asi.ilics in full doses at once, and the inehiiale re- 
tires lo the *olitaiy indulgence uf his delicious imagi- 
nations. Hence the wiue drinker appears in a supe- 
rior liglitto the imbiber of opium, a distinction which 
he owes mora lo ilie form Uiau to the quality of bis 
iquor-. 



It is the more necessary for men of feniua to tM 

on then' guard againsi the habitual use of wine, be- 
cause It IS a|il lo steal on them insensibly: and be 

lo warm aiul generous eiiiutious, and when ^irndeiice 
and moderation are often contemned as seinslinessaud 
timidity. 

It is the more neiessary for them to guard Hgainsi ex- 
cess 111 the use ol wine, because on tiiein its cflecis are, 
physically and morally, in an especial niinnier injuri- 
ous. Ill proporliuu lo iis stiinuialiiig inrtuence on the 
system (uu wliicli the pleasurable seusaliuns Jeptnd,) 
is the debility tliai euSKies ; a debility that desiruvs 
digestion, aiid tei mii.aies in habitual \eVKC, dro(isy, 
jaundice, paralysis, or insaniiy. As llie strength ol 
the booy decays, the voliiion fails ; in proijorliun a» 
the sensations are soothed and eralitieil, ilie sensi 
bility increases ; and morbid sensibiliiy is the pan ut 
of indolence, because, while it impairs llie reguiatnig 
power of the mind, it exags>erates all the ob^iacles to 
exertion. Acuvity, perseverance, and sell comniaud, 
become moie ami nine dilticull, and the great pnrpo»es 
ol utility, paiiiijiism, or ul lionoor.ible ambition, winch 
had occupied llie iiuaaiiitttioii, die away in li unless re- 
jjiuiious or in feeble etl'urts. 

To apply these ohaervatinns lo '.he subject of our me- 
moirs, WMiilii be a useless as well as a painful lasK. 
It IS,- indeed, a duly we ow.; lo the living, not to allow 
o adimraiioii oigreat genius, or even our pity lor as 
unhappy tlesliuy, lo conceal or disguise its errors. But 
tli>:re are aeulimeiils uf respect, ami even of lender-' 
ness, with wliicli tins duty suould be pei lurmed ; ilieio 
is an awlol saiici'i.y which iiiVesl the mansions of ihe 
dead : and let those who moralize over the graves of 
their coiiteinpoiaries. reflect wiih linmilily on their 
own erroin, nor lorget how soon tliey may themselves 
require the candour uud the sympathy they are called 
upou to bestow. * 



SOON after the death of Burns, the following arti- 
cle appearedin the Dumfries Journal, Irom which it 
via.* copied into Ihe Kdinburgh newsiiapers, Kiid iiilo 
various other periodical publications. Ills from the 
elegant pen of a lady already alluded lo in the course 
of these memoirs,* whose exertions for the laimly .if 
ourbar.l,in the circles of literature f.nd fashion ia 
which she moves, have done her so much honour. 

" The attention of the public seems to be much oc- 
cupied at present with llie loss it liasrecentlv sustaiiM 
ed in the death of the Laiedouiaii poet, B.ibe'rl Burns ; 
a lose calculated to be severely Icl- .iiroughoiii the lil- 



Uhl 



should be I 
ion of pos 



aiiproprialiiig to mysell the privilege ol criucising 
Buriis's writings and character, or of aniicipulin« on 
the province of u biographer. 

" Conscious, indeed, of my own inability to do jus- 
tice lo such a subject, I should have coiitiuucil wholly 
silent, had niisrepi csentation and calumuly been less 
inilusirious ; but a regard tolruih, no less than ati'ec- 
tiuu lor the mL-in iry of a friend, musi now justify my 
■ iti'ermg lo the jiubfic a few at least of those oli.serva- 
lioiis Wliicli au lulimaie iicquainlance with Burns, 

equally Ids iia|ji)y quiiUties and his failnuis for several 
years past, have enabled ine lo communicate. 

" ft will actually be an injustice done to Burns'^ 
character, not only by future generations mid forevga 
countries, but even by his native Scotland, and pwr- 
hapsa uumb«r of bis contemporaries, lluil aeu 

• Sm p. 80. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



4b 



I who have liad the advaii- 
Hiidiiiieil wiLh liiiii) was ac- 



«Ily talked of and eonildered, with reference to his po- 
etical talents on/y ; tor the tact is, even allowing his 
great and original genius its doe tribute of admiration, 
that I'oeiry (I apiieal 
tage ol benig peis.jua 

tually not U\sJ'oi:e. Many oihtrs, perh; 
hiive'asceiided to |)rouder lieights in the region of. ar- 
liussus, hut none cerlainly ever oulsliiMie Burns in the 
charms — the sortery, I woolil almost call it, of fasci- 
liiilin.'; ooiiversaliDii. Tlie spontaneous eloquence of so- 
cial argument, or the unstudied uoisiiaucy of brilliant 
repartee ; nor was any man, I believe, ever gifted with 
a larger portion of the 'vividi-vU ani/.'.i.' his per- 
sonal endowments were peifectly correspjiidenl to ihe 
qiialilications of his minci ; liis form was manly ; his 
action, energy itself ; devoid in a gieat measure per- 
liapsotthoae graces, of tliat polish, acquired only in 
the refinement of societies where in early life he could 
have nu opportunities of mixing ; but wlieie such was 
the irresistible power of auracuon that encircled him, 
though las appearance and manners were always pe- 
culiar, he never tailed to deliglil and to excel, liis 
figure seemed to bear lestinvny to his earlier destina- 
tion and employments. I tieeinerl rather mouldeil by 
halure tor ilie rough exercises ot agriculture, than the 
gentler cultivation of ihe Belles Lellers. His fealnres 
were stamped with the hardy characier of indepen- 
dence, and the firmness of conscious, though not arro- 
gant, pre-eminence ; the animated expressions ot 
counlenance were almost peculiar to himself; the ra- 
pid lightnings of his eyes were always the harbingers 
of some Hash of genius, whether they datied the tiery 
glances of insulied and indignant superioriiy, or beam- 
ed with ihe impassioned sentiment of fervent and im- 
petuous art'ections. His voice alone could improve up- 
on ine magic of his eye : sonorous, reji'ete with the 
finest modulations, it alternately captivated the ear 
with the melody of poetic numbers, tlie perspicuity of 
nervous reasoning, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic 
patriotism. 'I'he keenness ot siitire was, I am almost 
at a loss whether to say, his forte or his foihle ; for 
'.lioiigh nature had endowed him wiih a jiortion of the 
most pointed excellence in that dangerous talent, he 
Buttered it too often to be the vehicle of personal, and 
sometimes unfounded animosities. It was not always 
that sportiveness of humour, that ' unwary pleasantry' 
■which Sterne has depicted with touches so conciliato- 
ry, but the darts of ridicule weie frequeiitly directed 
as the caprice of the instant suggested, or as the alter- 
cations of parties and of persons haijpened to kindle 
•.he restlessness of his spirit into interest or aversmi. 
Tills, however, was not invariably the case ; his wit 
(which is no usual matter iiideed)'liad always ihe start 
of his judgment, and would lead him to the indulgence 
of raillery uniformly acute but often uuaccoui|. aided 
with ihe'least desire to wound, 'i'he Kup|Messiun ol 
an arch and full-pointed bon-mot, troni liie dread of 
ofTending its object, the sage of Zurich very properly 
classes as a virtue only to be sought for in the Calen- 
dar of Saints ; if so, Burns must not oe too severely 
dealt with for being rather deficient in it. He paid for 
his mischievous wit as dearly as any one could do. 
' 'Twas no extravagant arithmetic,' to say of him, as 
was said of Yonck, that ' for every ten jokes he got a 
hundred enemies :' but much allowance will be made 
Cy a candid mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit 
whom ' distress had spited with the world,' and which 
tiiiboiinded in its intellectual sallies and pursiiiis, con- 
tinually experienced the curbs imposed by the way- 
wardnes-i of his fortune. 'I'he vivacity of his wishes 
and temper was indeed checked by almost habitual 
disappointments, which sat heavy on a hearts that 
acknowledged the ruling passion of independance, 
without ever having been placed beyond the grasp of 
penury. His soul was never languid or inactive, and 
his genius was extinguished only with the last spark 
of retreating life. His pa^ions rendered him, accord- 
ing as they disclosed themselves in aft'ection or antipa- 
thy, an object orenihusiastic attachment, (u-of decided 
enmity ; for he possessed none of that negative iiisi- 
piditv of character, whose love might be regarded with 
indifference, or whose resentment could be considered 
with contempt, in this, it should seem, the temper of 
his associate" took the tincture from his own ; lor hv 
acknowledged in the universe but two classes ofoluccts, 
thoie ot adoration the mott tecvhnt, ui" ol aversion the 



most uncontrollable ; and it hat icer. fyeqnently a r»> 

pioach to him, that, unsusceptible of indiileirnce, 
ot'teii hating where he ought only to have des|>iseU. he 
alternately opened his lieart and poureil fu ili the itea- 

of apprecKiling the honuige ; and elevated n. Ihe 
privileges ot an adversary some who weie iinqn.iliiied 
in all respects for the lionour of a conies' so ilisim- 
guished. 

'' It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson prr.tess- 
eil to Move a good hater,' — a temperameiit liial wtuld 
have singularly adapted him toclieriifh a prepossession 
in favour of our bard, who perhaps fell Out lilile short 
even of the surly Doctor m this qualijicatiin, as hn<g 
as the disposition to ill-will coiilinuea ; but ihe warmili 
of his passions was foriunaiely coriected by their ver- 
satility. He was seldom, indued never, implacable in 
his resentments, and sometinies, it has bieii alltr^til, 
not inviolably t'aithftilin his eiigajienieiits of liitiMlship. 
Alticli, indeed, has been said about his niconsiamy 
and caprice ; but I am inclined to believe that they 
orighiated less in a levity of sentmieiii, tliaii tioii: an 
extreme inipetuosiiy of t'eeling, which reiidereil him 
prompt to take unibruge ; and his 8cnsatioii> of piqiia, 
where he fancied he liad discovered the traces ol neg- 
lect, scorn, or unkinflness, took tlieir measure ol as- 
perity from the ovtrtlowiiigs of the opposite senlinient 
whicii preceded them, and which seldom tailed to re- 
gain its ascendency in his bosom on the rc'.uni ol calmer 
refiection. He was candid and manly in the avowal 
ol his errors, and /liy avow il w;\.a a. reparation, fiis 
native fi Ttd never forsaking him for a moment, the 
value of a frank acknowledgment was enhanced ten 
fold towards a generous mind, from its never being ill 
tended with servility. His imnd, organized only for 
the stronger and more acute operations of the pas- 
sions, was impracticable to the efl'orts of snpeicilions- 
iiess that wuulil have depressed it into hnnnlity, and 
equally superior to the encroachments of venal suggea- 
tions that might have led him into the mazes of liypuc 
risy. 

" it has been observed, that he was far from averse 
to the incense of flattery, and could receive it tem- 
pered with less delicacy than might have I.eifii ex- 
pected, as he seldom transgressed extravagantly in 
that way himself; where he paid a compliment, it 
might Indeed claim the power of intoxication, as ap* 
probation from him was always an honest tribute truin 
the warmth and sincerity ol his heart, it has been 
sometimes represented by those who it would seem, 
had a view to depreciate, though they could not hope 
wholly to obscure that native brilliancy, which the 
powers of this extraordinary man had invariably be- 
stowed on every thing that came from his lips or pen, 
that the history of the Ayrshire plough-boy was an in- 
genious fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obliiin- 
iiig the interest of the great, and enhancing the merits 
of what required no toil. The Cotter's Satmday 
Night, Tav, o' Shanter, and The Mo.ntni.i JJainy, 
besides a number of laterprodtictions, where the matu- 
rity of his genius will be readily traced, and which will 
be given to the public as soon as his friends have col» 
lecteil and arranged them, speak sufficiently for them- 
selves ; and had they fallen from a hand more digni- 
fied ii; the rai.ks of society than that of a jjeasant, iliey 
had, perhaps, bestowed as unusual a grace there as 
even in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration from 
whence they realy sprung. 

" To the obscure scene of Burn's education, and to 
the laborious, though honourable station of rural in- 
dustry, in which his parentage enrolled him, almost 
every inhabitant of the south of Scotland can give tes- 
timr'ny. His only surviving brother, Ijilber'. Burns, 
now guides the pionglishare of his tbrefathers in Ayr- 
shire, at a farm near Alaucliline ;' and our poet' 
eldest son (a lad of nine years of age, whose early dis 
positions already prove him to be in some meusuie iJic 

• This very respectable and very superior man i* 
now removed to Dumfriesshire. He rents lands on tli« 
estate of C'losebnrn. and is a tenant '■• the veueraiji* 
Dr. Montcith, 1800.) E. 



46 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



inheritor of hl« father's talents as well a.i indigence) 
has been flestined by his family to the humble employ- 
ment ul'lhe luoju.* 

" That Burns hafl received no classical education, 
and was acij'iainied witli llie Ureck ami Human au- 
thors uuly tliioiiili the medium yf iranslaiiuMS, is a 
fact of wliicli all who were in the habits ut conversing 
with him niitilit readily be convinced. I have, indeed, 
seidiira observed him ID at a loss in conversation, un 
less wheie llie dead laiigiiasies and their writers have 
been the subjects of discnssion. When I have pressed 
him lo tell me why he never apiiiied himself to acquire 
the Latin, in ;iarticular, a laniiiiage which his happy 
memory wonid have somii eualded him lobe master 
oi, lie used only lo reply with a smile, that he had al 
ready learned all the Laun he desired to know, and 
that was omnia vincil nmor ; a sentence, that from his 
writings and most favourite )iiiisiiiis, it should un- 
•hiubte^lly seem that he was must ihoroughly versed in : 
but I really believe his classic erudition extended little, 
if any, further. 

" The penchant Burns had uniformly acknowledged 
forthe fesiive pleasures of the table, and towards the 
fairer objects of nature s creaiioii, has been the rally- 
ing puliit lioin wlienie the attacks of his censors have 
been uniformly dirtited : and Vi these, it must be con- 
fessed, be showed himself no stoic. Ilis poetical pieces 
blend with aheniate liappiness nf description, the frolic 
spirit of the flowinj liofti, or melt the heart to the 
tender an<l impassioned sentiments in which beauty 
always taught him to pour forth his own. But who 
would wish to reprove the feelings he has consecrated 
wiih such lively touches of nature.'' And where is the 
rugged moralist who will persuade lis so far to, ' chill 
the genial curreiu of tlie soul,' as to regret that Ovid 
ever celebrated his Corinnk or that Anacreon sung be- 
neath his vine .'* 

" 1 will not, however, undertake to be the apologist 
of the irregularities even of a man of genius, though 
I believe it is as certain tliiil genius never was free from 
Irregularities, as that their absulinion may, in a great 
measure, be justly claimed, since it is perfectly evi 
deiil that the world had continued very stationary in 
its intellectual acqiiiiemenls, had it never given birth 
.o any but men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, 
and a due regard lo the decorums of the world, have 
been so rarely seen to move hand in hand with genius, 
that some have eniie so far as to say, though there I 
cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even incompa- 
tible, bcsidesthe frailties that cast their shade over ihe 
splendour of superior merit, are more conspicuously 
glariiis; than where they are the attendants of mere 
mediocrity. It is only cii the gem we are disturbed lo 
see the diist ; the pe'ible may be soiled, and we never 
regard it. The eccentric intuitions of genius mo often 
yield the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, al- 
ways unbounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to 
the repose of o'.beis a? fatal tt/ its own. No wonder, 
then, if virtue hersell be sometimes lost in the blaze of 
kindling animation, or that the calm monitions of rea 
son are not invariably found sudicient to letter an ima- 
finatioii, which scorns the nairow limits ami res'ric 
ions lluii would ciiaiii it to the level of ordinary mimls. 
The child of natuie, the child of sensibiLiy, unschool- 
ed in the rigid (vrecetus of pliilosophy, too often unable 
to control the passions which proved a source of fre- 
quent errors and misfortunes to him. Bums made his 
own arile-ss apology in laoiuage more impressive than 
all the argiimentatory vimlicatious in the world could 
do. ill one of his own poems, where be delineates Ihe 
jr&dual expansion of his mind to the lessons of the ' tii- 
leiary nriiise,' who concludes an aduress to her pupil, al- 
most unique for simplicity and beautiful poetry, jvith 
these lines . 

" I saw thy pulse's madd'ning play 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way ; 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray 

By passion driven ; 

* 1 bis dvstiiialiun is now alierbd. (1900.) F. 



But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven,"* 

" T have f.lready transgressed beyond the boi^nds I 

had proposed to myseif, on first committing this sketch 
to paper, which compieheiiris what at least i have been 
led to deem tiie leading leatiires of Buriis's niind and 
character : a lileiary critique I do not aim at . mine 
is wholly lullilled, if in these pages I have been able to 
delineate any of those strong traits, which raised him 
from the plough, where he passed the bleak morning of 
his life, weaving his rude wreath of posy with the wild 
field-flowers that sptans; around his cuttage to that en- 
viable eminence of literary fame, where Scotland will 
long cherish his memory with deliulit and gratitude; 
and proudly remember, that beneath her cold sky a 
genius was ripened, without care or culture, that 
Would have done honour to climes more tavouiable to 
those luxuries — that warmth of colcurinfi and fancy 
ill which he so eminently excelled. 

" From several paragraphs I have noticed in the pub- 
lic prints, ever since the idea of sending this sketch to 
some one of them was formed I find privat>' aniin-.silies 
have not yet suosideii, and lliat envy has notexhaiisl- 
ed all her shalis. I still trust, however that honest 
fame will be permanently allixed to Burns's charac- 
ter, which 1 think it will he found he //as merited by 
the ca-iidid and impartial ainoii;; his countrymen. And 
where a recollection of the inijirudence that sullied his 
brighter qualifications interpose, let the imperlections 
of all human excellence be remembered at the same 
time, leaving those inconsistencies, which allernateiy 
exalted Ins nature into the seraph, and sunk it ag-^n 
into the mail, to the tribunal which alone can in«e?t> 
gate the labyrinths of the human heart— 

' Where they alike in trembling hope repose, 
— The bosom of his father and his God.' 

GRAY'S ELEGY 
" Annandnle, Aug. 7, 1696." 

After this account of the life and personal! character 
of Burns, it may be expected that some inquiry should 
be made into his liieraiy merits. It will not, however, 
be necessary to enter very minutely into this investiga- 
tion. If fiction lie, as some siq, pose, theso'.il of poetry, 
no one had ever less pretensions to the name of poet 
than Burns. Though he has displayed great powers 
of imagination, yet the subject orl which he has writ- 
ten, are seldom, it e\er, imaeinary ; his poems, as well 
as his letters, may be considered as the cfl'usions of his 
sensibility, and the transcript of his own musings on 
the real incidents of his humble life. Ifwe add, that 
they also coniain most happy delineations of llie cha- 
racters, manners, and scenery iliat presented them- 
selves to his observation, we shall include almost all 
the subjects of bis muse. His writings may, therefore, 
be regarded as atlording a great part of thedala on 
which our account of his personal character hat been 
lounded ; and most of the observations we have appli- 
ed to the man, are applicable, with little variation, to 
the poet. 

The impression of his birih, and of his originat 
station in life, was not more evident on his form and 
manners, than on his poetical productions. The inci- 
dents which form the subjects of his poems, 'hough 
some of them highly interesting, ano susceptible of 
pnelical imai;ery,'are incidents in the life of a peasant 
who takes no pains to di.'guise the lowliness of Ins con- 
dition, nor to throw into shade the circumstances at- 
tending It, which moie feeble or more artificial imnds 
would have endeavoured to conceal. The same rude- 
ness and inattention appears in the formatiuu ol ins 
rhymes, which aie frequently incorrect, while the 
measure in which many of the poems are wriitm, hat 
little ofihe pomp or harmony of modern vejaUicali.'ii, 
and is indeed to an Knglish ear, strange and uncom.li. 
The greater part ol bis eai liei poems are wri'.teu in 
the dialect of his country, wlucli is ohsjure, il not 
unintelligible '.o Englishmen ; and which, il.'^unh il 

• Vide the Vision— Duao 2d. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



47 



ttlB adJwre* mor« or less to the speech of almost ev- 
«iy Scotchman, all tlie polite and the ambitions arc 
omv eiiileavniiriiig to b.iiiish from their toiig^ies as 
»'eli as 1 heir writings. The use of it in composition 
niuiiinllj- therefore calls up ideas of vulgarity in the 
miiiil. Tiiese sin^cilariiies are increased by the 
character r,( the poet, v/ho delights to express him- 
•*if with a simplicity that approaches to nakedness, 
(.O'l with an unnvasured energy that often alarms 
lelicacy, and sometimes ofie'iids taste. Hence, in ap- 
^'loachmg him, ilie first impression is perhaps repul- 
sive : there is an air of coarseness about him which is 
diihciikly recimciled with our established notions cf 
poetical excellence. 

As the reader however becomes better acquainted 
with the poet, the effects of his peculiarities lessen. 
lie [lerceives in his poems, even on the lowest si.bjects, 
expressions of sentiment, and delineations of man- 
ners, which are highly inierestiiig. 'I'he scenery he 
describes is evidently taken from real life ; the cha- 
racters he introduces, ajid the incidenls he relates, 
have the impression of nature and tnuh. His humour, 
thougli wild and unbridled, is irresistibly amusing, 
and is sometimes heiffhJeued in ils efl'ecis by the in- 
troduction of emotions of tenderness, wilh which 
geinmie humour so happily uniies. Nor is this the 
extent of his power. The reailer, as he examines 
farther, discovers that the poet is not confined to the 
descriptive, the humorous, or the pathetic ; he is 
foiind, as occasion offers, to rise with ease into the 
leirible and the sublime. Kvery where he appears 
devoid of artifice, iterfotraing what he attempts with 
little apparent effort ; jiid impressing on the offspring 
of /ns fancif th- st imp of his understanding. The 
reader, capahje of forming a just estimate of poetical 
talents, discovers in these circumstances marks of 
uiicoinmon genius, and is willing to investigate more 
minutely its nature and its claims to originality. Thie 
last point we shall examine first. 

Thai Biirna had not the advantages of a classical 
education, or of any degree of acquaintance with the 
Creek or Roman writers in their original dress, has 
appeared in tlie history of his life. He acquired in 
rieed some knowledge of the French language, but it 
does not appear that he was ever much conversant in 
French literature, nor is there any evidence of his 
having derived any of his poetical stores from that 
SiMice. With the Knglish classics he became well ac- 
quainted in the course of his life, and the effects of this 
acquaintance are oiiservable in Ins latter productions ; 
but the character and style of his poetry were formed 
very early, and the model which he followed, in as 
far as he can be said to have had one. is to be sought 
fur in the wo.-ks of the poets who have wriiten in the 
Scutlish dialect — in the works of such of them more 
especially, as are familiar to the peasantry of Scot- 
laud. Some ohservalions on these may form a proper 
introduction to a more particular examination of the 
poetry of Burns. The studies of the i'.ditor in this 
direction are indeed very recent and very imperfect. 
It would have been imprudent for him to have entered 
on thissuhiectat all, but for the kindness of Mr. Ram. 
say, of Ochtertyre, whose assistance he is proud to 
acknowledge, and to whom the reader must ascribe 
whatever i< of any value in the following imperfect 
sketch r,f literary composiiious in the Scottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little cnrious, and which 
does not seem to be sutisfactorilv ex[ilained, that in 
thi thirteen-.h centurv. the laiiEuaee of the two Brit- 
ish nations, if at nil different, differed oulv in the di- 
alect, the Gaelic in the one, like the Welsh and Armo- 
nc in the otns,-, being confined to' the mountainous 
districts. - The F.nglish under the Kdwards, and the 
Scots under Wallace' and Bruce,'spoke the same laii- 
Piiaee. We may observe also, that in Scotland the 
history of poetry a.*cends to a period nearly as remote 
a« in KiiKlaud. Barbour, and Blind Harry', James the 
First, Dunbar, Douglas nnd Lindsay, who lived in the 
fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries, were 



coeval with the fathers of poetry in England ; aniJ .a 
the opinion of Mr. VVharion, not inlei lor to them io 
genius or in composition. 'J'hough the language of iha 
two countries gradually deviated from each other du 
ring this period, yet the difference on the whole wa* 
not considerable ; not {lerhaps greater than between 
the different dialecu o( the ditiereut parts ol iingland 
iu our own lime. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 154-2, the lan- 
guage of Scotland was in a flourishing condition, 
wanting only writers in prose equal to those :n vei ^e. 
Twocircumstances, propitious on the whole, opcraieil 
to prevent this. The first was the passion of ilic Sci t» 
tor composition in Latin ; and the second, the acces- 
sion of James the Sixth to the Knglish throne. It nihy 
easily be imagined, that if Buchanan had devoted los 
admirable talents, even in part, to the cultivalions, uf 
his native tongue, as was done by the revivers of letters 
in Italy, he would have left compositions in that lan- 
guage which might have incited otiier men of gcinus 
to have followed his exanijile,* and given duraiion to 
the language itself. The union of the two crowns in 
the uerson of James, overthrew all reasonable expec- 
tation of this kind. That nioiMich set-ed on the En- 
glish throne, would no longer suffer himself to be atl- 
dressed in the rude dialect in which the Scottish cl,-r 
gy had so often insulted his dignity, lie encourated 
Latin or English only, both of which he prided hiin 
self on writing with pu.-ity, though he himself never 
could acquire the English pronunciation, but spoke 
with a Scottish idiom and intonation to the last. 
Scotsmen of talents declined writing in their native 
language, which they knew was not acceptable to their 
learned and pedantic monarch ; and at a time whec 
national prejudice and enmity prevailed to a ft) eal 
degree, they disdained to study the niceties of the 
English tongue, though of so much easier acquisitioa 
than a dead language. Lord Stirling and Drummond, 
ot l^awthornden, the only Scotsmen who wrote poetry 
in those times, were exceptions. They studied the 
language of England, and composed in it with preci- 
sion and elegance. They were however the last of 
their countrymen who deserved to be considered as 
poets in that century. The muses of Scotland sunk 
into silence, and did not again raise their voices for a 
period of eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this extreme 
depression anions a people comparatively learned, 
enterprising, and ingenious.'' Shall we impute it to 
the fanaticism of the covenanters, ot to the tyranny of 
tiie house of Stuart, alter their restoration to lh« 
throne ? Doubtless these causes operated, but they 
seem unequal to account for the effect. In England, 
similar distractions and oppres.iion took place, yet jio- 
etry flourished there in a remarkable degiee. Dui'mg 
this period, Cowley, and Waller, and bryden sun;;, 
and Milton raised his strain of unparalleled giamieoi . 
'I'o the causes already mentioned, another must be 
added, in accounting for the torpor of Scottish litera- 
ture — the want of a proper vehicle for men of ^ei'iui 
toemploy. The civil wars had frightened dWcfV the 
Latin Muses, and no standard had been established 
of the Scottish tongue, which .was deviaiini; still lar- 
ther from the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature In Scotland may be dntejJ 
from the establishment of the union, or rather li.ui 
the extinction of the rebellion in 1715. The iiaiiuini 
being finally incorporated, it was clearly seen thai 
tlieir tongues must in the end incorporate also ; or 
rather indeed that the Scottish language must degt De- 
rate into a provincial idiom, to be avoided by ibo.sB 
who would aim at distinction in letters, or rise tc emi- 
nence in the united legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius appeared, 
who studied the English classics, and imitattd their 
beauties^ in the same manner as they stuflied the rla» 
sics of Greece and Rome. They had admirable model* A 
composition lately presented to them by the writf •'*•'.« 



"^ Historioa! Essay on Scottish Song, p. 16, by M, * *• C- ''''" Authors of xM«s Delicto; Poer.cit>»m Sc^ 
kitBott. iorum, SfC. 



is 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



the r«lgn of diieen Anna ; particularly in the periodi- 
cal ps.|>ei-8 published by Steele, Addison, and their as- 
sociated liiends, which cnculated widely through 
Scotiaiid; and diffused every where a taste for purity 
of style and sentiment, and for critical disquisition. 
At length ilie Scottish writers "succeeded in Enj^lisli 
coinposition, and a union was formed by the literary 
taiei.;s, as wellas of the legislatures of the two uaiiuns. 
On this occasion the poets took the lead. While 
Henry, Home,* Dr. Wallace, and their learned associ- 
ates, were only laying in their intellectual stores, and 
Btudying to clear themselves of their Scottish idioms, 
Thomson Mallei, and Hamilton of Baiigour had made 
their appearance oefore the public, and been enrolled 
on the list of English poets. The writers in prose fol- 
lowed a numerous and powerful band, and poured 
llieir ample siores in the general stream ol British lit- 
erature. Scotland possessed her four universities be- 
fore the accession of James to the Kngli.sli throne. Im- 
mediately before the union, she acquired her parochi 
b1 schools. 'I'liese establishments combining happily 
together, made the elements of knowledge of easy ac- 
quisition, and presented a direct path, by which the 
ardent student might he carried along into the re- 
eessesof science or learning. Ai civil broils ceased, 
and faction and prejudice gradually died away, a wider 
field was opened to literary ambition, and the influ- 
ence of the Scottish institutions for instruction, on the 
productions of the press, became more and more appa- 
rent. 

It seems indeed probable, that the establishment of 
the parochial schools produced effects on the rural 
muse of Scotland also, which have not hitherto been 
• uspected, and which, though less splendid in their 
nature, are not however to be regardetl as trivial, 
whether we consider the happiness ur the murals of the 
people. \ 

There is some reason to believe, that the original 
inhabitants of ihe British isies possessed a peculiar 
and iniei-esling species of music, which being banished 
from the plains by the successive invasions of the Sax- 
ons, Danes, and Normans, was preserved with the 
native race, in the wild." of Ireland and in the moun- 
tains of Scotland and Wales. The Irish, the Scot- 
tish, and the Welsh music differ, indeed, from each 
Ol/ier, but the difference maybe considered as in dia- 
lect only, and probably produced by the influence of 
time, and like the different dialects of their common 
language. If this conjecture be true, the Scottish 
tiiusic must be more immediately of Highland nri^in, 
and the Lowland tunes, though now of a characler 
Somewhat distinct, must have descended from the 
mountains in remote ages. Whatevercredit maybe 
given to conjectures, evidently involved in great un- 
certainty, there can be no doubt that the Scottish pea- 
santry have been long in possession of a number of 
•ongs and ballads composed in their native dialect, 
and aung in their native music. The srbjects of these 
compositions are such as must interested the simple 
Inhabitants, and in the succession of time vari'id prob- 
ably as the condition of the society varier'. During 
the separation and the hostility of the two nations, 
vhese songs and ballads, as far as our imijerfect docu- 
ments enable us to judge, were chiefly warlike ; such 
asthei/i*/.<ts o/ C/ierior, and the Battle of Hrioia. 
Alter the union of the two crowns, when a certain de- 
gree of peace and of tranquillity look place, the rural 
mu5e of Scotland breathed in softer accents. " In the 
want of real evidence respecting the history of our 
80I1SS," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochterlyre, "recourse 
mav be had to conjecture. One would' be disposed to 
think that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunes 
were clothed with new words after the union of the 
crowns. The inhabitants of the borders, who had for- 
merly been warriors from choice, and liusbandineii 
frurn necessity, either quitted the country, or were 
transformed into real shepherds, easy in their circum 
•lances, and satisfied with their lot. Some sparks of 
that spirit of chivalry for which they are celebrated by 
Pruissart, remained, sufficient to inspire elevation of 
ind gullHiitry towards the fair sitx. The 

* Lord K-iiinet. 



familiarity and kindness which had lung subsisted b* 
between the gentry and the peasantry, could not all ai 
once be obliterated, and ihU connexion tended to 
sweeten rural life. In this state ■)!' innocence, ease 
and tranquillity of mind, the love of poetry uml rnu«ic, 
would still maintain us ground, though it would 'laiiir- 
ally assume a form congen.al to the more peiicelo 
stale of society. The minstrels, whij.se rnclrital taits 
used ouce to rou^e the borderers like the triinipet's 
sound, had been by an order of the leyislature (m 
1579,) classed with rogues and vagalKuuis. and at- 
tempted to be suppressed. Knox- and his disciples ;a 
ffuenced the Scottish parlianieni, hut cuntcnded in 
vain with her rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, 
probaoly on the banks of the I Weed, or some of its 
triuuiary streams, one or more original geniuses may 
have arisen, who were destined to give a new lurn to 
the taste of their countrymen. They would see that 
the events and pursuiis which chequer pnvaie life were 
the proper subjects for popular poetry. I^ove. which 
had formerly held a divided sway with glory and am- 
bition, became now the muster passion of the soul. To 
portray in lively and delicate colours, ihoufih with a 
hasty hand, the hopes and leais that agitate the breast 
ol the lovesick swain, or loi lorn maiden, aliorils anifile 
scope to the rural poet. Love-song* of which Tibnilns 
himself would not have been asha'mtd, inisht be com- 
posed by an uneducated rosiic with a slight iinct..re of 
letters; ojifiii these songs, t)ie character ol the rustic 
be sometimes assumed, the truih of charauier, aiin 
the language of nature, are preserved. With unaffect- 
ed simplicity and lemleriiess, topics are urged, most 
likely to solleii Ihe hcailb of a cruel and coy 'nnslreKs, 
to regain a tickle lover. Even '.n such as are of a ine- 
lancholy cast, a ray of hope breaks through, and dis- 
pels the deep and settled gloom which characterizes 
khe sweetest of the highland /uin ga, or vocal airs. — 
Nor are these songs a!l plaintive; many oflhein are 
lively and humorous, ami some appear to us cnarse 
and indelicate. They stem, however, genuine des- 
criptions of the munners of uii energetic and seqiies'.er- 
ed people in iheir hours of miilh and festivity, tl-o-igh 
111 tlieir portraits some objects are brought iiil'j-jpeii 
view, which more fastidious painters wou'd hava 
thrown into shade. 

" As those rural poets sune for arnunenieri not for 
gain, their effusions seMom exc— iled <t \o)'.-!'u\tz. or a 
ballad of satire ur humour, wuich, iikethewoiks of 
Ihe elder minstrels, were seldom coinmitiedto v.'iiting, 
but treasured up in the memory ol their friends and 
iieiKhboui-s. Neither known lo the learned, nor pat- 
ronized by the great, these rustic bards lived ami died 
in obscurity ; and by a strange fatality, their story, 
and even their very names have been forg'itten.' When 
proper models for pastoral songs were produced, there 
would be no want of imitaiors. To succeed in this 
species of composition, soundness of undersianding, 
and sensibility of heart were more rtquuite tlniu 
flights of imauiimlion or pomp of numners. Ctrtal 
changes have certainly taken place in Srotush sons- 
writing, though we cannot Irace the steps of chanre ; 
and lew of the pieces admired in (iueei: Msry'a tiirif 
are now to be discovered in mi>derii solleciions. It is 
possible, though not probi-.bit, ihal the music may have 
remained nearly the same, though Ihe words to the 
tunes were entirely new-moddled."t 

These conjectures ate highly ingenious It caniu>l 
however, be presumed, that the stale of ease and irs^n- 

• In tlie I'epys Collection, there are a few Scottikh 
songs of the last century, but the names ol the aulhors 
are not preserved. 

t Extract of a letter from Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre 
to the Editor, Sept. 11, 1739.— In the Bee, vol. ii. is » 

j communication to Mr. Ramsay, under the signature ol 
J. Runcole, which enters into this subject somewhat 

' more at large. In ih-it paper he eiv,-« his reasons (o» 

i questibniug the autlmiity of man) of the most c«let>i* 

I ted Scottish ungs. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



iB 



1J,'UH* iMcnbetf by Mr. Ramsay, took place among verses worthy of the melodiei ihey accompanied, woiVjj 



1 acnitisn ueasaiitry immKdiaiely on ihe union ot lli 
5PP«rni. or indeed during ihe greater part of the seveii 
teem? century. The Scottish nation, ttTiou^h tli lU 
raiiKJ. was deeply agitated by the civil wais, and iht 
re;:;;!OU« peraeoutions wlucli succeeded eacli oths^r in 
tnal uisasteroue period ; il was not till allei the revo 
lui'oii in Ibijd, and ihe suLisequent eslablislimeiit ol 
tneir b«loved form of chnrcli govei niiient, tliut the 
pea»antry of the Lowlands enjoyed comparative re- 
|iose ; and it is since tliat period, ihat a great number 
of the most admired Scouioli songs have oeen produc- 
ed, tiiough the tunes to wliich they are sung, are in 
genera, of much greater aniiquity. It is not iinrea- 
»oiiable to suppose that the pe.ice and security derived 
f'ora the Revolution and the Union, produced a favour- 
able change on the rustic poetry of Scotland ; anil it 
can scarcely be doubled, ihaltlie iiisLitiition of parish- 
scliools ill 1696, by which a certain decree of iiisiruc 
ti(>ii was diti'used universally among .he peasantry, 
Contributed to this happy eQect 

Soon after this appeared Allan Ramssy, the Scot- 
tish Tiieocritus. ne was horn on the high mountains 
that divide Clydesdale and Annamlale, in 'a small 
hamlet on the banks of Glang' 
descends into the Clyde. 'I'he r 



ideed of the golden age. 'I 
:lligible to eve 



igol 



tlect I 



, of Ihi 



ill aiiown to tl 



e inquiring 



ivelle 



ream which 
1 hamlet are 
He was the 
son of a peasant, and'probably received such instruc- 
tion as his parish school besiowed, and tlie poverty of 
iiis parents admitted.! Ramsay made his appearance 
In Kdinburgh in the beginning of ilie present century, 
in the humble character of an apprentice to a barber, 
or peruke maker ; he was then fourteen or fifteen 
jeai-s of age. By degrees he acquired notice for his 
toc.ai' disposition, ami his talent for the composition of 
Verses in his Scottish idiom; and, changing his pro- 
fession for inat of a bookseller, he became intimate 
'A-ith many of the literary, as well as of the gay and 
laanionable characters of his time. J Having published 
dvoiunieof poems of his own in 1721, which was fa- 
vourably received, he undertook to make a collection 
Of ancient Scottish poems, under the title of the Ever- 
Orer.n, and was afterwards encouraged to present to 
the world a collection of Scottish songs. " From what 
»oi;'-?»i ie procured them," says Mr. Ramsay of Och- 
lertyre, "whether whom tradition or manuscripts, is 
Uncertain. As in the Ever-Green he made some rash 
attempts to improve on the originals of his ancient 
poems, he probably used still greater freedom with the 
ioi.js tr.d ballads. The truth cannot, however, be 
known on this point, till manuscripts of ilie songs print- 
ed by him, more ancient than the jjresent icentury, 
shall be produced ; or access be obtained to his own 
papers, if they arestill ill existence. To several tunes 
which eitiier wanted words, or had words that were 
improper or imperfect, he, or his friends, adapted 

* See Campbell's History of Poetry iu Scotland, p. 
185. 

t The father of Ramsay was, it is said, a work- 
man in the lead-mines of the Karl of Hopeton, at 
Lead hills. The workmen in those mines at present 
are of a very superior character to miners in general. 
1'hey have only six hours of labour in the day, and 
have time for reading. 'I'hey have a common library, 
supported by contribution, containing several thou- 
sand volumes. When this was iustitutetl I have not 
learned. These miners are said to be of a very sober 
and moral character . Allan Ramsay, when very young 
is supposed to have been a washer of ore in these 
mines. 

J " He was coeval wi'.'n Joseph Mitchell, and his club 
of small xvi'M, who about 1719, published a very poor 
miscellany, to which Dr. Young, the author of the 
Ni^ht TkoughU p?»ftxed a copy of "erses." Ex- 
tract of a W\iT tVpm Mr. Ramsay of Ochten.yie to the 
Cdllor. 



ortsi 

Siy liad uUvaii 

llie Scouish d 

ol Cumberland or La 

because these ilialects 

sons ol fashion. But 

fjry, every Scolsma 

spoKe a truly IJo 



erses were pet' 

justly ailinireiJ by 

"e^arileil tliciii a^ llic genuine 

L posc-esaed b_v pucis wriinig hi 
JUidays. Suuga in Ihe dialed 
;aslnie'couKI ue'vei be pupiiiar, 
lave never been ipukeii by per 
It llie middle of the present ceil 
from the peer to the peasant, 
"uase. It IS true ihe Knglish 



lid poets were by th 



ptrsoii 



tha 



composuion. 
stiong, the b 



But, as iiauon; 
V, llie learned, 1 



spe 



il pairuuuKii 



11 elegance and poigu; 

Leucliat,°a scholar and a man o 
viveil all the members of ihe U 
which he had a seal. Iiispiouu 
ology differed as much from ihe 
tile language of St. Jaine»'s fro 
street, tlad we retained a cour 
our own, the tongues of the t 
would iiideeil have differed lik 
i ortuguesc ; but each would have 
not in a single branch, but in the v 
ture. 



" Ramsay associated with the men of wit and fash- 
ion of his day, and several ol them aliempied to wrila 
poetry in his manner. Persons too idle or loo dissipa- 
ted to think of compositions that required much exer- 
ertioii, succeeded very happily in niaiiing tender son- 
nets to favourite tunes in cumplimeiii of llieir mis 
tresses, land, translorining themselves into impas 
sioned shepherds, caught the language of the cliarac 
ters they assumed. Tlius, about the yea' 1731, \i.o 
bert Ijrawlord of Auchiuames, wrote the modern sonf, 
of Tiered Side,' which has tieen so much a. Inured. Il 
1743, Sir Gilbert Klliot, the first of our lawyers whc 
both spoke and wrote EngliE!i.elegAntly, cjinposcd, ir 
the character of a love-sick swain, a beautiful sorj 
beginning, My sheep I j.egiect.A, I lost my sh^cp 
hook, on the marriage of his mistress, Miss Poibe* 
with Ronald Crawlord. Anil about twelve ye&re af 
terwards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrole llie cnci n 
words to tlie tune of the Fiouier^ nf ike Forest,^ and 
supposed to allude to ihe battle of Flowden. In spite 
of the double rhyme, it is a sweet, and though in some 
parts allegorical, a natural expression of national sor- 
row. The more niod:rn words to ihe same tmie, be- 
ginning, I h !ve sen th': smiling of forlurv: btguHiiig_ 
were written long before by Mrs. Cockburn, a wiunaii 
of great wit, who outlive^l all ti.e first group o\ literati 
of the present century, all of whom were very fond ut 
her. 1 was delighted with her company, ihoughrAvlien 
1 saw her, she was very old. Much did she know thai 



In addition to these instances of Scottish songs pro- 
duceil in the earlier part of the present ceiiiury, may 
be mentioned the ballad of H irdikni,ti',by L.uly Ward- 
law ; the ballad of Willi, m and Mar gar t ; and il:8 
song entitled The Birks ofEnd.rmay, bv Mallet ; ihe 



beginning, For 



', For 



ill the 



prove, pro.iuced by the youthful muse of Thomson ; 
and the exquisite pathetic ballad. The Braes of Y ir. 
row, by Hamilton of Uangour. On the revival of let- 
ters in Scotland, subsequent to t.'ie Union, a very gen- 
eral taste seems to have prevailed for the national 
songs and music. " For many years,'' says Mr. Ram- 
say, " the singing of songs was the great delight of the 
higher and middle orderof the people, as well as o. 
the peasantry ; and though a taste for Italian music 
has interfered with this amusement, it is still very pre* 

* Beginning, " What beauties does Flora disclose !" 

t Beginning " I ha-»e heard a lilting at otir «vei» 

milkinj." 



50 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



ralent. Between forty and fifty years ago, the com- 
mon people were aol only exceedingly toiid of songs 
and ballads, but of meiVkal hisury. Often have 1, 
in my cheerlul morn ut youth, listened to them with 
de.iglit, wlien reailiiig or recituig the exploits of Wal- 
latie and Bruce against liie -io j.l/iri»ti. Lord Hailes 
Was wont to call blind Harry their Biblj, he being 
Iheir great favourite next the Scriptures. When, there- 
fore, onein the vale of life, felt the first emotions of ge- 
nius, he wanted not models ■iui geieris. tSut thongli 
the seeds of poetry were scattered with a plentiful 
hand among the Scottish peasantry , the protlnclwas 
pr^'hably like that of pears and apples— of a thousand 
that spring np, nine hundred and lifty are so bad as to 
set the teetli on ed^e ; forty live or more are passable 
and useful ; and the rest of an exquisite flavoii'-. Allan 
Ramsay and Burns are wildings of this last descrip 
lion. They had the example of the elder Scottish po- 
ets ; they were not without the aid of the best English 
writers ; and what was of still more importance, they 
were no strangers to the book of nature, and the book of 
God." 

From this general view, it is apparent that Allan 
Ramsay may be considered as in a great measure the 
revibwer of the rural poetry of his country. His col- 
lection of ancient Scottish poems, under the name of 
T'le Jioer-Green, his collection of Scottish songs, and 
his own poems, the principal of which is tlie Gentle 
Shepherd, have been universally read among the 
|)e,is.(nti}y of Ins country, and have in some degree sii- 
persedel the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, UB re- 
cordejl by tJarbonr and Blind Hai ry. Burns was well 
HcquiiijMed with all these. Me had also before him the 
poems of Fergusson in the Scottish dialect, which have 
been produced in onrown times, and of which it will 
be necessary to give a short account. 

Fergiisson was born of parents who had it in their 
powerto procure him a liberal education, a circum- 
stance, however, which in Scotland implies no very 
high rank in society. From a well written and appa- 
rently authentic account of his life,* we learn that he 
spent six years ai the schools of Kilinbiirgh and Dun- 
<lee, and several years at the universities of Edinburgh 
a:id St. Andrews. It appears that he was at one 
time destined lor the Scottish church ; but as he ad- 
vanced towards manhood, he renounced thai inten- 
tion, and at Kdinburgh entered the office of a writer to 
the signet, a title wnich designates a separate and 
Jiigher order of Scottish attorneys. Fergiisson had 
Sensibility of mind, a warm and generous heart, and 
talents fur society of the most aiiractive kind. 'I'o 
tiicli a man no situation could he more dangerous than 
that in which he was placed. The excesses into which 
he was led, impaired Ids feeble constitution, and he 
sunk uniler iheinin the monili of October, 177-1, in his 
23d or 24tli year. Burns was not acquainted with the 
poems of this youthful genius when he himself began 
to write poetry ; and when he first saw them he had 
renounced the muses. But while he resided in the 
town of Irvine, meeting with Pi-rgusson's Scottisk 
Poms, he informs ns ihat he "strung his lyre anew 
with emulating vigour."t Ton -.lied by the sympathy 
Driginating in kindred genius, and in the forcbodin!;s 
of similar fortune. Burns regarded Fergiisson with a 
partial and an affectionate aJimration. Over his 
grave he erected a monument, as has already been 
mentioned ; and his poems he has, in several instan- 
ces, made the subjects of his imitation. 

From this account of the Scottish poems known to 
Burns, those who are acquainted with them will see 
that they are chiefly Ikumorous or pathetic ; and under 
■lie or other of these descriptions most of his own 
poems will class, l.el us compare him with his pre- 
decessors under each of these points of vieW; and close 
our examinaiion with a few general observaiioiia. 

*]n ihe supplement to the " Encyclnpadia Britan- 
nlca." See also, ''Campbell's Introduction to the 
Hiatary of " Poetry in Scotland." 



It has frequently been observed, that Scotland ha« 
1 produced, comparatively speaking, lew writers wno 
have excelled in humour. But this observation it 
true only wlien applied to those who have coi.ui.u'-d 
I to reside! in their own country, and haveci'iiliiiKa ineio- 
I selves 10 composition in pure K'lfilisli . and in these 
circumstances it admits of an easy explanation. I'ne 
Scottish poets, who have written in the dialect ol 
Scotland, have been at all times remarkable f«:r iwel- 
ling on sulijects of humour, in wliicli indeed many of 
them have excelled. Il would be easy to show, that 
the dialect of Scotland having become provincial, is 
now scarcely suited to the more elevated KUiils ol po- 
etry. 11 we may believe that the poem ot ChriaUg 
Kirk of the Grene was written by James the First of 
Scotland,* this accomplished monarcli who had re- 
ceived an Englisii eilucation under the direction of 
Henry the Fourth, and who bore amis uniler his gal- 
lant successor, gave the model on which the greater 
part of the hurnorous proiluctions of the rustic muse 
of Scotland h;i3 been lorined. ChrUtU Kii K of the 
Greiie was reprinted by Ramsay, somewhat in idern- 
ized in the orihography, and two cantos were a.ulcJ 
by him, in which he attempts to carry on the design. 
Hence ibij poem of King James is usually urinied in 
Ramsay's works. The royal baid ilescrihes, in tiie 
first canto, n rustic dance, and attcrwards a cunten- 
tion in archerv, ending in an affray. Ramsay i elates 
the restoration of concoid, and the renewal of the ni- 
rul spoVts, with the humours of a country wedding. 
Though each of the poets describes the manners of 
his respective age, yet in the whole piece there is a 
very sulficient rinilormity ; a striking prool of the 
identity of character in the Scottish peasantiy at the 
two periods, distant from each other three hundred 
years. It is an lionouraiile distinction to this ta Kly of 
men, that their character and manners, very i.ttle 
einliellislied, have been loniid to be susceptible of an 
amusing iiiid iiiterestin'i species of poelry ; and 11 must 
apjiear not a little curious, that the sinsle nation of 
modern Kuiopc, which possesses an original rural 
poetry, should have received the model, followed by 
their rustic bards, from the inonaich on the throne. 

The two additional cantoes to Ckristis Kirk of the 
Greie, written by Ramsay, though objectionable in 
point of delicacy, aro among the happiest of his pro- 
ductions, his chief excellence, indeed, lay in the de 
scription of rural characters, incidents, and scenery; 
for he did not possess any very high powers either of 
imagination or of understanding He was well ac- 
quainted with the peasantry ot Scollaml, their livea 
and opinions. The subject was in a great nieamire 
new ; his lalents were equal to the subject : and he 
has shown that il may be happily adapted to pastoral 
poetry. In his Gc;\;le Shepherd the characters are 
delineations fiom nature, the descriptive parts are in 
Ihe genuine style of beautiful simplicity, the passions 
and'arteclions' of rural life are finely portrayed, and 
the heart is pleasingly interested in the happiness that 

the whole lliere is an air of realily wliich the most 
careless reader cannot but perceive ; and in faci no 
poem ever perhaps acquired so liigh a reputation, in 
which truth received so little embellishment from the 
imagination. In liis pasloral songs, and in hi» rural 
tales, Ramsay appears lo less advantage indeed, but 
still with considerable aiiraction. The story of the 
Monk and the Milier's Wifr, thunuh somewhat li- 
centious, may rank with the happiest productions ol 
I rior or La Fontaine. But when he aitempts sub- 
jects from higher life, and aims at pure English com 
position, he is feeble and uninteresting, and setdcm 

•Notwithstanding the evideuce produced on thi» 
subject by Mr. Tyiler, the Editor acknowledges hia 
being somewhat of a sr-piic on this point. Sir Daviil 
Dalrymple inclines to the opinion that il was wrilleu 
by his successor, James the Fifth. There are dilfi 
culties attending this supposition also. JJut on the 
subject of Scoitish autiquities, ths Editor \i uo uicoio 
peient judge. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



tT« rrachei mediocrity.* Neither are his familiar 
epitlleK ai>d ele.eies in the Scottish dialect Biitiiled to 
much apjHobalioii. Though Fergusson had higher 
powers of imagiiidtioii than Ramsay, Ills genius was 
not of the highest order ; nor did lu's learning, wliich 
was considerable, improve his genius, ins poejns 
written in pure Kiigiis,h, in which he often follows 
classical models, iTuiugh si;perior to the Knghsh 
{loems of Ramsay, seldom rise above mediociily ; but 
m thosK composed in the Scottish dialect he is often 
very successful, i-ie was i:i general, however, less 
ha|)py ilian Hamsay in the subjects of his muse. As 
lie s^pent the urealer ]iarl of his life in £ "inburgh, and 
wrote for his amusement in the iiilervils of business or 
dir.sipaiion. Ins Scottish poeins are chiefly founded on 
the inciiieiils of a town life, which, ihough they are 
ensceptible of humour, do not aiimit of those detiiiea- 
lions of scenery and manners, which vivify the rural 
poeuy of Ramsay, and which so agreeably air.jse the 
fancy and interest the heart. The town eclogues of 
Fiiigusson, if we may so denominate them, are how- 
ever faitliful to nature, and ofien distinguished by a 
Very happy vein of humcnr. His poems eutilled. The 
Daft Days, The King's Birth-day in EdinbuTgh, 
Leilh iJrtces, and The Hallow Fair, will, justify this 
character, in these, particularly in the last, he imi- 
tated Chnstis Kirk of the Grcne,as Rainsav had done 
before him. His Address to the Tronkirk 'Bell is an 
exquisite piece of humour, which Burns has scarcely 
excelled. In appreciating the genius of Fergusson, 
It ought to be recollecteil, that his jjoems are the care- 
less etliisioiis of an irregular, lliough amiable young 
man, who wrote for the periodical papers of the day, 
and who dieil in early youth. Had his life been pro- 
longed under happier circumstances of fortune, he 
Would probably have risen to inuch higher reputation. 
He might have excelled in rural poetry ; for ihough hi» 
professed pastorals on the established Sicilian model, 
are stale and uninteresting. The Farmer's I gli.t 
wliich may be considered as a Scottish pastoral, is 
the happiest of all his productions, and certainly was 
the archetype of the Cotter's Saturdny Night. Fer- 
gusson, and more especially Burns, have shown that 
the character and manners of the peasantry of Scot- 
land of the present times, are as well adapted to 
poetry, as In the drfys of Ramsay, or of the author of 
Christis Kirk of the Grene. 



"Hia honest, sonsle, bawn'nt foee, 

Ay gat him friends in ilka jilace ; 

His breast was white, his towsie back 

Weel clad wi' coal o' glossy ' lack. 

His gawcie tail, wi^ wpwurd curl, 

Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a etourl." 

Never were twa dogs so exquisitely delineated. 
Their gambols before they sit down to moranze, .ue 
described with an equal degree of hajipiness ; and 
through the whole dialogue, the character, as well as 
the diSereiit condition of ll:e I wo speakers, is kept in 
view. The speech of i,«a/A, in which he enumerates 
the comforis ol the poor, gives the lollowing account of 
their merriment on the fiiut clay of the year : 

" That merry day the year beeins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And shetU a heartinspiriug sttain ; 
Theluntin pipe, and sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' richt giiid will 
The cantie anid folks crackin croiise, 
The young anes raniiu thro' the house, 
My heailhas been sae fain to see them, 
Tliat I for joy hae barkil wi' them." 



The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than that of 
Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, as he himself 
infoitrij us, he had "frequently in his eye, but rather 
with a view to kindle at their flame, than to servile 
iiniiation."J His descri|itive powers, whether the 
objects on which they are employed be comic nr seri- 
ous, animate or inanimaie, are of the highest order. 
A superiority of this kind is essential to every species 
of poetical excellence. In one of his earlier poems, 
his jilaii seems to be to inculcate a lesson of content- 
ment m the lower classes of society, by showing ibat 
their superiors are neither much better nor happier 
whan themselves ; and this iie chooses to execute in a 
form of a dialogue between two dogs. He introduces 
this dialogue by an account of the persons and charac- 
ters of the speakers. The first, whom he has named 
Caesar, is a dog of condition ; 

•' His locked, letier'd, braw brass coflar, 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar." 

High-bred though he is, he is however full ofconde- 
■cension : 



" At kirk or market, mill or sraiddie, 

Nae tawtcd tyke, tho, e'er saeduddie, 

But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him, 

Aiid stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him." 

The other, Luath, is a " ploughman's collie , but a cur 
of a good heart and a sound understanding. 

'See " The Morning Interview," &c. 
IThe farmer's fire-side. JSee Appendix. 



Of all the animals who have moralized on human af- 
fairs since the days ol yJisop, the dog seems best enti- 
tled to this privilege, as well from his superior sagacti- 
ly, as from hisbtiiig more than any otiier the friend 
anil associate of man. The dogs of Burns, exceiJtiiig 
ill their talent for moralizing, are <lowiiri£lit dngs ; and 
not like the horses of Swift, or the Hi d and Pa-thei 
of Drydeii, men in the shape of brutes. It is this cir 
cumstance mat helj;hteus the humour of the dialogue 
The " twa dogs" are constantly kept before our eyes 
and the contrast between their form and character as 
dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, heightens 
the humour and deepens the impression ot the poets 
satire. Though in his poem the chief excellence may 
be considered as humour, yet great talenis are dis- 
played in its composition ; the happ.est powers of des- 
cription and the deepest insiaht into the human heart.* 
It is seldom, however, that the humour of Burns ap- 
pears In so simple a form. The liveliness of his sensibili- 
ty frequently impels him to introduce into subjects of 
humour, emotions of tenderness or of pity ; and where 
occasion admits, he IS sometimes carried on to exert 
the higher powers of tne imagination. In such iii':<ian- 
ces he leaves the society of Ramsay and of Kergiis- 



id associates himself with the ma 



of Knff- 



ish poetry, whose language he frequently assumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, examjilea 
may be found in The Death and Dying Words of 
poor Mailie, in The Avid Farmtr's iSlew.Ye-.r's 
Morning Sal itntio'i to his Mare M ggie, and in 
many of his other poems. The praise ol whiskey is 
a favourite subject with Burns. To this he dedi- 
cates his poem of Scotch Drink. After mentioning its 

* When this poem first appeared, it was thought by 
some very stu-prising that a peasant, who had not an 
opportunity of associating even with a f^imple gentle- 
man, should have been able to portray the character of 
high life with such accuracy. And when it was recol- 
lected that he had probably been at the races of Ayr, 
where nobility as well as gentry are to be seen, it was 
concluded that the race-groiuid had been the field of 
his observation. This was sagacious enough ; but it 
did not require such instruction to inform Burns, that 
human nature is essentially the same in \he high and 
the low ; and a genius wliich comprehenck the human 
mind, easily comprehend* the accidental varieties in* 
troduted by situation. 



52 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



influenrc In a rartetx of situations, he de- 
pcnbes, Willi singular livtliiiess and power of fancy, its 
r'amiilatiiig eti'ecis oii ihe blacksmith working at his 
orge: 

" Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
The brawiue, baime, plougliman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

'I'he strong fore liammer, 
Till block an' sturidie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour." 

On another occasion,* choosing to exalt whiskey 
above wine, lie juLruduces a cuiiii.>arison between ilie 
Ba'.ives of m<iie genial claIl<^^j, lu whom the vine fur- 
nishes llieir Ijeveraue, and tns own counirynien who 
innk the spii it ul malt. Tlie description of ihe Scoid- 
Rieii IS humonrous : 

" But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap to his cheek a' Highland gill, 
Say such is Royal George's will, 

Aii^ there's the foe, 
He has nae thought hut how to kill 

Twa at a blow." 

Here the notion of danger rouses the imagination of 
'Jie poet. Ue goes on thus : 

" Nae caiild, fainthearted doubtings tease him ; 
Death comes, wi' tearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' Muidy hand a A'elconie gies liim 

An' when he las, 
His latest draught o' breaihing lea'es him 

111 faint huzzas." 

Again, however, he sinks into hnmoiir,and concludes 
Ihe puein with the following most laughable, but most 
.rreverent apostrophe : 

" Scotland, my auld respected Mither ! 
Tho' whiles ye moiatify your leather. 
Till where ye sil, on craps o' heather. 

Ye tine your Jain : 
Freedom and wliisk:y gang thegitlier, 

Tak off your dram !" 

Of this union of humour wiih the higher powers of 
ImaginatiUM, instances may be lound in the potiii enti- 
tled Otruii and Dr. Hornbook, and in alniusl every 

• la^za of the Address l, Ike Util, one of the happiest 
of his prodiicuoiis. Alter repioaching this terrible 
being Willi all his "doings" and misdeeds, in the 
Course ul winch lie passes llirougli a series of Scoilish 

• upersiuioiis, and rises al times into a high strain of 
poetry ; lie cuiichides this addiesa, delivered In a lone 
ol great laiiiihanty, nol altogether unmixed with ap- 
prelienaioii, in tlie luliowing words : 

" Bui, fare ye weel, auld Nickie ben I 

O wad you tak a thought an' men' ! 

Ye aibiiiis might — I dinna ken- 
Still hae a stake — 

I'm wae to think upo' yon den 

E'en for your sake .'" 

Humour and tenderness are here so happily in- 
termixed, that it is impossible to say which prepon- 
derates. 

F?urguison wrote a dialogue between the Cnusewiyf' 
•nd the PLaimlones,^ of Edinburgh. This probably 

• " The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer to the 
Scotch Representatives in Parliament." 

t The middle of the street, and the side way. 1 



suggested to Burns his dialogue oetireen the Old %tA 

the New bridge over the river Ayr.* The nature <»l 
such subjects reouires thai they shall be treated hu- 
mourously, and Furginson has aitempied iioihins b" 
yond this. Though the Cms «,-,!/ ami ihe Plainsto;e» 
talk t.igellier, no allempl is made to persimifv th« 
speakers. A " cailie"t heard the conversation ai'iO re- 
ported it to the poel. 

In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ay, Burn* 
himself is the auditor, and the time and occasion on 
which it occurred is related wiili great circtinistaiitiali- 
ly. 'I'lie poet, " pressed by care," or " inspired by 
whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr, and wan- 
• lered out aloiKe in the darkness and solilude of a win- 
lei night, to tlie niooih ol the river, where the siilliies* 
was iiiierriipied only by the rushing sound of the inriiix 
ot the tide. Il was after luidnighi. Tlie Dungeon- 
clock:]: had struck two, and the sound liad be-;!! re- 
pealed by Wallace-Toiver.J All else was hushed.— 
The moon shone brightly, and 

" The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently crusting, o't«- the glittering stream."— 

In this situation the listening hard hears the "clang- 
ing siigh" of wings moving through the air, an'.' speed- 
ily he perceives two beincs, reared the oi.e on the Old, 
the othei on ihe New Bridge, whose form ?ii(l atiire 
he describes, and whose conversation with vv.c'^ other 
he rehearses. These genii enter into a comparison of 
ilie respective* edilices over which ihey pre8ii'.a,i'.i;d af- 
lerwanls, as is usual between the old and young, com- 
pare miidern characters and manners with ifiose of 
past times. They differ, as may be expeded, and 
laiiiii and scold each other in Broad Scotch. This 
conversation, which is crilainly humourous, may h» 
considered as the propei business ol the poem. A 
the debate runs high, and ihrea'.eiis sericus consequen- 
ces, all at once il ia interrupted by a new aceiio of 
wonders : 

" all before their sight 

A fairy train appeared in order bright ; 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd ; 
Bright to the mnmi iheir various dresses glanc'd 
They footed o'er ihe walry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet ; 
While arls yj( Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And souleiuiobliiig BariU heroic ditties sung." 



" The Genius of the Stream in front a 
A venerable chief, advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd. 
His manly leg with garter-tangle bound." 

Next follow a number of other allesorical heine«, 
amont; them are the four seasons, Rural Joy, Plenty, 
Hospitality, and Courage. 

•' Benevolence, with mild benienant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair ; 
Learnine and Wealth in equal measures trode, 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode ; 
Last, while-robed Peace, crown'd wiih a haxcl- 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instrument of Deal h j 
At sight of whom our sprites forgal their kindlinf 

wrath." 

* The Brige of Ayr. t A 

J The two itoeple* of Ayr. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



53 



TW« poem, irrefiilar and impertect as it i«, displays 
Tariotnaiid imiverriil talnils, hihI may serve to ilius- 
tmte the aLuiii* oT IJiinis. In |iaiiiciilar, it aft'ords a 
»iril(iii2 insiaiiie t'f liis being caiiied lievond Ids origi- 
nal pntpose !)>' the powers ol" iniasinalioii. 

Ill rerc-Jsoii's poems, the Plninsto^Trs and ''Jause- 
ncy cjrili nst ilie oliaracters of tlie diftVreiit persons 
who walked upon lliein. Bums prolialdv conceived, 
thai, liy a di ijusne littween the Old and New Uridge, 
he mieni lo-ni a hnmorons contrast between ancient 
and modern mainiei s in the town of Ayr. Sncli a dia 
loamt conid only be sopposed to pass in the stillness of 
nisjht . and tins led onr poet into a description of a 
midnii-lit scene, which excited in a high degree the 
powers of his ima-jiinitioii. Dnring the whole dialoene 
the scenery is present to his fancy, and at length it 
sugsests to him a fairy dance of aerial beines, nnder 
the beams of the moon, by which the wrath of the Genii 
of the Brigs of Ayr is appeased. 

Incoi'gnions as the different parts of this poem are, 
it is luit an inconsrnity thai displeases ; and we have 
only to regret that the poet did not bestow a little pains 
in making the figuies more correct, and in smoothing 
the versification. 

The epistles of Burns, in which may he included his 
DerUcnlinn to G. II. Esq. discover, lil:e his other 
writings, the powers of a superior understandins;. 
They display deep insight into human nature, a gay 
and happy strain of retieclion, great independence of 
Sentiment, and generosity of heart. It is to be regret- 
ted, that, in Ids Holt/ Fair, and in some of his other 
poems, his humoin- degenerates into personal satire, 
and that it is not sufficiently goariied in other respects. 
The H llnween of Burns is free from every objection 
of this sort. It is interesting, not merely from its hu 
morons descrijilion of manners, but as it recorils the 
Lpells and chdrms used on the celebration of a lesii- 
val, now, even in Scotland, falling into neglect, but 
which was once observed over the greater pan of Bii- 
lain aufl Irel'dud.* These charms are su|i))osed to af 
ford an insight into futurity, especially on the subject 
of mnrriagf, the most intere.'iting event of rural lite. 
In the Hilloween, a female in performing one of the 
ipeils, has occasion to go out by moonlight to dip her 
shifi-sleeve inioa stream r.innins tow irds the Sn'ilh.i 
It was not necessary for Burns to give a drscriplion of 
this stream. But it was the -jharacterof his ardent 
mind to pour forth-not merely what the occasion re 
quired, but what it adndlted : and the temptation to 
describe so beautiful a natural object by tnooulight, 
was not 10 be resisted. 

" Whyles owre a Htm the biirnie pkys 

As thro' iheglen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it stays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookil underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night." 

Those who understand the Scottish dialect will al 
low this to be one of the finest instances of description 
which the records of poetry aiford. Though of a veiy 
ditierent nature, it may be comi'ared in point of ex 
cellence with Thompson's description of a rivet 
Bivollen by the rains of winter, bnisting through the 
siraiglitb that confine its torrent, " boiling, wheeling, 
foannng, and thundering along. "J 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly in rural 
poetry ol a serious nature, Burns excelled equally as 

* In Ireland it is still celebrated. It is not quite 
in disuse in Wales. 

tSee " Halloweei:," Stanzas zxiv. and xxt. 
J S«a Thomjjssa's Winter. 



in that of a humorous kiiiU ; and, using kss of tM 

Scottish dialect in his sei'ious poems, he becomes ma/t 
geneially intelligible. It is diflicnlt to decide wlieiher 
the AdUr,!^i> to a Alotis-, w/iose nest was turntd up 
with i/ii: plough, should be coni«idered as serious or 
Comic. Lf thi.s as it may, the pueni is one cl ilie hap- 
liiesl and most linisiieil of his productions. If we 
smile at the •' cicktriug natlle" of lliis fiying animal, 
it IS a smile of lendcruess and pity. Tlie desciipiive 
part is admirable ; the inoial lerteciiona beauiilnl, 
and arising diietily out of the occasion ; and in the 
cunclu.-^ion there is a deep melancholy, a seiiliinent of 
doubt and dread, that rises to llie snuilme. The Ad- 
dress to a Mountain Daisy, turned down wiili ihe 
plough, is a poem ol the same nature, lliongh some- 
what inferior in point of originality, as well us in tha 
interest proiluced. To exiiacl out of incidents so 
coinmon, and seemingly so trivial as these, so line a 
tram of sentiment and imagery, is t!ie surest, pruol, as 
Well as the most brilliant triumph of original genius. 
1'he Vision, in two canlucs, from which a beautilul 
extract is taken by Mr. Mackeii/ie, in the 67tli nuni- 
berof T/it //O ./.g-ir, is a potni ol great excellence.— 
Theopeniiig, in which the puet desciibes his own stuta 
ol mind, retiring in the evening, wearied from the ia- 
boiiis ol the day, to moralize on his coiidijci and pios- 
pects, is truly interesting. The chamber, if we may 
so term it, in which he sits down to muse, is an ex< 
quisite painting : 

" There, lanely, by the i.ngle-cheek 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 
That fiU'd, wi' hoast provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About iheriggin." 

To reconcile to our imagination the entrance of an 
aerial being into a mansion of this kind, required the 
powers of Burns — he however succeeds. Coila enters, 
and her countenance, altitude, and dress, unlike those 
of other fjiiritual beings, are distinctly portrayed. To 
he painting, on her mantle, on which is depict- 
(1 the most striking scenery, as well as the most 
distinguished characters, of his native country, some 
exceiitions mav be made. The mantle of Coila, 
like the cupof 'I'liyrsis,- and the shiehl of Achilles, is 
too much crowdetl with figures, and some ol the ob- 
jects represented upon it are scarcely ailinissible, ac- 
cording to the jirinciples of design. The generous 
temperameiil of Burns led him into these exnlicransi s. 
In his second edition he eiilaiged the number of fig- 
ures originally introiliiced, that he might include i^b. 
jects to which he was attached by seutiinents of alfec- 
tion, gralituile, or i atriotisai. Tlie second Duan, y 
ito of this I'Oein, in which Coila desciibes her own 
ure and occu|)atioii particularly her superiutemi. 
e of his infant genius, and in which she reconciles 
1 to the chaiaderof a baril. is an elegant ami .<o- 
lenii; strain of [loetry, ranking in all res|iecis, txce|.l- 
the harm;ury of numbers, with the liiLditr pniilnc- 
s of Ihe Krrglish muse. The concluding staii/a, 
compared with that alreaily quoted, will show to w..a» 
height Burns rises in this poem, from the point at which 
he Set out; — 

" Andwear thou this— she solemn said, 
And, bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries^-ed. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a pasiing thouglit, she fled 

In light a way." 

In va'-ions poems. Burns has exhilutpd the piclur 

of a miiiil Miller the ileep iiti re=si f r^al sonow 

The Lfimetil. The Ode to R in. Despond emy. and 
Win er, a Dirge, are of this character. In the first 
of these poems, the 8th stanza, which descriii!"- a 
sleepless night from anguish of minrl, is particularly 
striking. Burns often indulged in those melancbaljr 

* See lite &rsi Idyiliutn M Tbeocrilua. 



64 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



»iew8 6t th« nature and condition of man, which 

are so congciiiai to the lemperameiit of seiisibiliiy. — 
'I'lie poem entitled Man was m de to Mourn, atl'ords 
^11 iusiaiice of lliia kind, and The Winter Nigki is of 
tlie same description. 'J' lie last is highly characteris- 
tic, Iwtli of the temper of mind, and of the couth tiun ol 
iJ.irns. It begins with a description of a dieadful 
jijrni on a ni^hiin winter. The poet represents hini- 
seU' as laying in bed, and listening to its howhng. In 
tnis situation he naturally turns his thoughts to the 
owrie CutLe and the siUi/ S'/ieep, exposed to all the 
violence of tlie tempest. Having lanienled their fate, 
he proceeds in the following manner : 

" Ilk happing bird — wee, helpless thing I 
That, in ihe merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear ihee sing, 

What comes o' thee.' 
Where wiU thou cow'r thy chitteriiig wing, 

An' close thy e'e ?" 

Other reflections of the same nature occur to his 
rtiind ; and as the midnight moon " muffled with 
clouds" casts her dreary light on his window, thoughts 
of a darker and more melancholy nature crowd upon 
him. In this state of mind, he hears a voice pouring 
tlirouiih the gloom a solemn and plaintive strain of re- 
flection. The mourner compares the fury of the ele- 
ments with that of man to his brother man, and finds 
the former light in the balance. 

" See stern oppression's iron grip, 

Or mad ambition's gory hand. 
Sending, like blood hounds from the slip, 

Wo, want, and murder, o'er a land !" 

He pursues this train of reflection through a variety 
of pariiculara, in the course of which be introduces the 
fuUuwiug animated apostrophe.: 

" Oh ye I who, sunk in beds of down. 
Keel not a. want but what yourselves create, 

TIank, lor a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Wlium friends and fortune quite disown I 

Ill-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 

While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifiy heap I" 

The strain of sentiment which runs through the 
pncm is noble, though the execution is unequal, and 
the versilicaliou is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, The Cotter's 
S'tturday Night is perhaps entitled to the lirst rank. 
1'he farmer's IngU of Fergusson evidently snggesied 
tile plan of this poem, as has been already mentioned ; 
but after the plan was formed, Burns trusted entirely 
to Ins own powers for the execution. Fergusson's 
poeir. is certainly very beautiful. It has all the charms 
which depend on rural characters and manners hap- 
iiily portrayed, and exhibited under circumstances 
highly grateful to the imagination. The Fair.ier's Tri- 
fle begins with describing the return of evening. The 
toils of the day are over, and the farmer retires to his 
comfortable lire-side. The reception which he and liis 
men servants receive from the careful housewife, is 
pleasingly rlescrilitd. After their supper is over, they 
begin to talk on the rural events of the day. 

" Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, 
How Jock wooed J niiy here to be his bride ; 

And there how Marion for a bastard son, 
Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride, 

The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide." 

The " Gnidame" is next introduced as forming a 
circie round llie Are, iu tfas midst of her grand-chil- 



dren, and while she spins from the roc)*, and tn« a^a* 
die plays on her " russe: laj;," she is reiatint; (O lh« 
young ones tales of witches and ghosts. 'J'he poet ex- 
claims : 

" O mock na this, my friends ! but rather mourn, 
Ye in lile's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 

Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return, 
And dim our doltfu' days wi' bairnly fear ; 

The mind's ave cradled when the grave is near." 

In the mean time the farmer, wearied with the fj.- 
tigiies of the day, stretches himself at length on the 
^'ellle, a sort of rustic couch, which extends on one 
side of the fire, and the cat and house-dog leap upon it 
to receive his caresses. Here resting at his ease, he 
gives his directions to his men-servants for the suc- 
ceeding day. The housewife follows his example, and 
gives her orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil in 
the cruise begins to fail ; the hre runs low ; sleep steals 
on this rustic group ; and they move oil' to enjoy their 
peaceful slumbers. The poet concludes by bcslovviiig 
his blessings on the " husbaudmau and all his tribe." 

This is an original and truly interesting pastoral, 
(t possesses every thing required in this species ui 
composition. We might have perhaps said every 
thing that it admits, had not Burns written his Cot 
ter's Saturday Night. 

The cottager retirrning from his labours, has no 
servants to accompany him, to partake of his fare, or 
to receive his instructions. The circle which he joins, 
is composed of his wife and children only ; and if i'. 
admits of less variety, it affords an opportunity for 
representing scenes that more strongly interest the af- 
fections. The younger children running to meet him, 
and clambering round his knee ; tJie elder, returning 
from their weekly labours with the neighbouring far- 
mers, dutifully depositing their little gains v^iih their 
parents, and receiving their father's blessing and in- 
structions ; the incidents of the courtship of Jenny, 
their eldest daughter, ''woman grown ;" are circum 
stance'' of the most interesting kind, which are most 
happily delineated; and after their frugal supper, the 
representation of these humble cottagers forming a 
wider circle round their hearth, and uniting in ihr 
worship of God, is a picture the most deeply afi'ectiiia 
of any which the rural muse has ever presented lo the 
view. Burns wa» admirably adapted to this delinea- 
tion. Like all men of gen'us, he was of the tempera- 
ment of devotion, and the powers of memory coopera- 
ted in this instance with the sensibility of his heart, 
and the fervour of his imagination.' Th- Co/ler'a 
Saturday Night is tender and moral, it is solemn and 
devotional, and rises at length into a strain of gran- 
deur and sublimity, which modern poetry has notsiir- 
passed. The noble sentiments of patriotism with 
which it concludes, correspond with the i-est of the 
poem. !n no age or country have the pastoral muses 
breathed such elevated accents, if the Messiah of Pope 
be excepted, which is indeed a iiastoral in form only. 
It is to he regretted that Burns- did not employ his 
genius on other subjects of the same nature, wliicii the 
manners and customs of the Scottish peasantry would 
have amply supplied. Such poetry is not to be esti- 
mated by the degree of pleasure which it bestows ; it 
sinks deeply into the heart, and is calculated far be- 
yond any other human means, for giving permanence 
to the scenes and characters it so exquisitely de- 
scrihts.t 

Before we conclude, it will be proper to ofl'er a few 
observations on the lyric productions of Burns. His 
compositions of this kind are chiefly songs, generally 
in the Scottish dialect, and always after the model of 
the Scottish songs, on the general character and moral 
influence of wlilch, some observations have already 
been offered. Wc may hazard a few more paiticular 
remarks. 

* The reader will recollect that the Cotter v«a 
Burns's father. See p. 18. 
t See Appendix, No. 11. NoleD. 



THE LIFE OF BLRNS. 



55 



Oflha hiitvrie or heroic ballads of Scotland, ilia 
■iinccesnary lo ipeak. Burns has no where imilaled 
Jieiii, a circuiistauce lo be regreiicd, since in this 
•jjeciej of composition, from its admitting ihe more 
:eriibie as well as tlie softer graces of poetry, he was 
*iiuncntly qualified to have excelled. The ScoiLisli 
»..ni» '.vhich serveil as a model to Burns, are uliiiust 
wiLrioui excepiion pastoral, or rather rurjl. ^Jiicli of 
ihemas are cornic, frequently treat of a rustic couil- 
thip or a country wedilinfj; or they describe the 
riut'erences of opinion wliich arise :.i married life. 
Burns has imilaled this species, and surpassed his 
nio.lels. The song, begnniing, " Husband, husband. 
Cease your strife," may be cited in supjiort of this 
observation.' His other comic songs are of equal 
merit, in the rural songs of Scotland, whether hu- 
morous or leniler, tlie sentiments are given to particu- 
lar characters, and very generally, the incidents are 
referred to particular scenery. This last ciicumsiance 
ni.iy be cojisidered us the distinguished feature of the 
Scottish songs, and on it a considerable part of their 
attraction depends. ()n all occasions the sentiments, 
of whatever iialine, are delivered .n the character of 
the person principally iiiteiested. if love be described, 
it is not as it is observed, but as it is felt ; and the 
passion is delineated under a particular aspect. 
Neither is it the fiercer impulses of desire that are ex- 
pressed, as in the celel)rated .ode of Sappho, tlie model 
of so many modern songs, but those gentler emotions 
of tenderness and afi'ection. which do not entirely ab- 
sorb the lover ; but permit him to associate, his emo- 
tions with the charms of external nature, and breathe 
the accents of purity and innocence, as well as of love. 
In these respects the love'songs of Scotland are hon- 
ourably distinguished from the most admired classical 
corniiositions of the same kind ; and by such associa- 
liuns, a variety, as well as liveliness, is given to the 
representation of this passion, which are not to be 
found in t..e poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of 
any ntlier nation. Many of the love-songs of Scotland 
describe scenes of rural courtship ; many may be 
coiisidertd as invocations from lovers to their mis- 
tresses. On such occasions a degree of interest and 
reality is given lo the sentiments, by the s[iot des- 
tined to these happy interviews being particularized. 
The lovers perhaps meet at the Bus/i aboon Traquuir, 
or on the Batiks of E trick ; the nymphs are invoked 
lo wander among the wilds o( Roslin, or the woods of 
Invermny. Nor is the spot merely pointed out ; the 
scenery is often described us well as the characters, so 
as to present a complete picture to the fancy .t Thus 

* The dialogues between husbands and their wives, 
which form the subjects of the Scottish songs, are al- 
most all ludicrous and satirical, and in these contests 
the lady is generally victorious. Kromthe coliections 
of Mr. Pinkerton, wre find that the comic muse of 
Scotland delighted in such representations from very 
eai ly times, in her rude dramatic efforts, as well as in 
her rustic songs. 

1 One or two examples may illustrate this observa- 
tion. A Scottish song, written about a hundred years 
ago, begins thus: 

" On Ettrick banks, on a summer's night, 

At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame, 
1 met my lassie, braw and tight, 

Come wading barefoot a' her lane ; 
My heart grew light, I ran, ! flang 

My arms about her lily neck, 
And kiss'd and clasped there fu' lang, 
My words they were na mony feck."* 

The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to relate 
the language he emjiioyed with his Lowland maid to 
win her heart, and to persuade her to fly with him to 
«he Highland hills, there to share his fortune. The 

* MonKy Seek, not very manr. 



the maxim of Horace ut pic turn jjoesis, is fajthfirlly 
observed by these rusuc bar.ls, wfi-t me guiih-.l l;y l!-* 
same impulse of nature and scnsilniuy which intUi- 
eiiced the father of e|.-ic poetry, on wh.jse exai.iple the 
pi'ecept of the Roman poet was (.eiluips hiunUti;. By 
this means the imaginaliuii is employed !•> inteiest ihe 
feeliiiis. When we not conceive disiuiclly we do nnv 
sympathize dee|dy in any huniaii ali'ection ; and we 
conceive nothing in the abstract. Absir.iciion, so use- 
ful in morals, and so essential in science, must be 
abandoned when the heart is to be subdued by the 
powers of poetry or of eloquence. The bards of a ru- 
der condition of society paint individual objects ; and 
hence, among other causes, the easy access they ob- 
tain to the heart. Generalization is the vice of poets 
whose learning overpowers their genius ; of poets of a 
refiued and scientific age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so much in the 
Scottish songs, while it contributes greatly to the in- 
terest they excite, alsoshows that they have originated 
among a people in the earlier stages of society Where 
this form of composition appears in songs of a modern 
date, itii|dicates that they have been written after the 
ancient model.* 

sentiments are in themselves beautiful. But we feel 
them with double force, while we conceive that they 
were addressed by a lover to his mistress, whom he 
met all alone, on a summer's evening, by the banks of 
a beautiful stream, which some of us have actually 
seen, and which all of us can paint to our imagination. 
Let us take another example. It is now a nymph 
that speaks. Hear how she expresses herself— 

" How blythe each morn was I to see 

tMy swain come o'er the hill ! 
He skipt the burn, and flew to me, 
I met him withguid will." 

Here is another picture drawn by the pencil of Na- 
ture. We see a shepherdess standing by the side of a 
brook, watching her lover as he descends the opposite 
hill. He bounds lightly along; he approaches nearer 
and nearer ; he leaps the brook, and flies into her 
arms. In the recollection of these circumstances, the 
surrounding scenery becomes endeared lo the fair 
mourner, and she bui»ls into the following exeiama- 
tion : 

" O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom, 
The broom of the Cowdeii Knowes I 

I wish I were with my dear swain, 
With his pipe and my ewes." 

Thus the individual spot of this happy interview <• 
pointed out, and Ihe picture is completed. 

* That the dramatic form of writing charactenzeu 
the productions ot an early, or, what amounts to the 
same thing, of a rude stage of society may be i.'\.itrat- 
ed by a reference to the most ancient compositions 
that we know of, the Hebrew scriptures, and the wri- 
tings of Homer. The form of dialogue is adopted iu 
the old Scottish ballads even in narration, whenever 
the situations described becomes interesting. Thu 
sometimes produces a very striking efl'ect, of which a;^ 
instance may be given from the ballad o{ Edom o' 
Gordon, a composition apparently of the sixteenth 
century. The story of the ballad is shortly this.— 
The castle of Rhodes, in the absence of its lord, 
is att.Acked by the robber Edom o' Gordon. The 
lady sUnda on hier dsfence, beats off ilie aasej'acu. 



60 



THE LIFE OF BURNS, 



T'le Scottiih »nns» are of a rery une'iual poelicel 
ttierii, ami tnis iiieqiiality ot'ieii exieiids lo ihe iliir';r- 
eiit jtaris ol'ilie same song. 'l'lius>! iliat are humonnis. 
orcliaiaclei'islic of muiiiiers, have m general llie rnenl 
of tjpyi.ia; nature : llijse iliai are serious, are tender, 
md uKtJi sweelly iniei'esiiu^, but. seUloiixexlubit liigli 
powers ,ifim,i';m.aijri, \viiicli indeed dj nol easily find 
a place in tins specjes ul' cumiiosiiion. The alliance 
ol' ilie words of Die Scotiisli songs with tlie music, 
has in some in'iiances ^iveii the I'ornier a poj^iulariiy, 
which otherwise lliey would nol have obtained. 

The association of the words ami the muaic of these 
toni»s, with the more beautilul parts of the scenery of 
Scotland, coniributes lo the same ertect. U has given 
them not merely popniaruy, but permanence ; it has 
imparted to the worKs of man some portion of the dti- 
raiiiiiy of the works of nature. If, from our imper- 
fect ex)ierieiice of ihe past, we may judge wiili any 
confulence respecting the future, songs uf this descrip- 
tion are of all others least likely to die. In the changes 
of language they may no doubt autier change ; but 
the associa-.ed strain of sentiment and of music will 
perhaps survive, while the clear stream sweeps down 
the vale of Yarrow, or the yellow broom waves on 
Cowdea-Kiinwes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song-writitig were 
not Very successful. His habitual inattention to the 
exactness ul rhymes, ami lo the harmony of number, 
arising probably from the models on whicii the versiti- 
cation was formed, were faults likely to appear to more 
disadvantage in this Sjiejies of coin|josition, than in 
any other ; and we may also remark, thai the strenglh 
of his iiuazination, and llie exuberance uf Ilia seusibili- 
ly, weie with diiiiculty restrained withui the limits of 
gentleness, delicacy, and tenderness, which seemtil lo 
be assigned to the love-songs uf his nation. Burns was 
better adapted by nature for following, in such compo- 
(iiions, the model of the ^Grecian, than that gf the 
Scottish muse. By study and practice he howevei- 
iurmoiiiited all these ooslacles. In his earlier Bunss, 
iheie is some rnggedness ; but this gradually disap- 
peais ill his successive efi'orts ; and some of Ins later 
cojnpositions ol this kind may be coitijiared, in pid- 
isiieil delicacy, wiili the finest songs in our lai.giiage, 
While lit the eloquence uf sensibility they surpass tliein 
all. 

Th<> longs of Diiriis, like the models he followed and 
excel letl, are often ilramatic, and for ihe greater part 
amatory ; and the beauiiesof rural nature are every 
Where ansocialed with the passioiu and emotions of 

and wounds Gordon, who, in his rage, orders the 
castle to >ie set on fire. 'I'liat his orders are car- 
ried into etTect, we learn from the exposiulation of the 
lady, who is represented as standing on the baltlu- 
menis, and remonstrating on this barbarity. She is 
uiierrupted^ 

" O then bespake her httle son, 

Sate on his nourice knee ; 
Says. 'miiher dear, gi'owrethis house, 

For the reek itsmithers me.' 
• i wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, 

Sae wad I a' my fee, 
Forae blast o' the weslin wind, 

To blaw the reek frae thee." ' 

The circumsiantialily of the Scottish love-sonen, and 
the dramatic form which prevails so generally in them, 
pnbably arises from their being the descendants and 
successors of the ancieijl ballads. In the beautiful 
modern song of Maiy of Castls-Cary, the dramatic 
form has a very happy effect. The same may he said 
oi IJori'dd aud Flora, and Come wider rny plaidit, by 
tile same author, Mr. M<tciu»l. 



the mind. Disdaining to copy the work of otben, m 
has not, like some poeis ol ^rcai name, admitted iiiio 
his descj-ipiions exotic imagery. The landscapes he 
has painieil, and the objects with which they are em- 
bellished, are, in every single instance, such us are to 
be found 111 his own coulitiy. lu a mountainous re- 
gion, especially when it is comparatively rude and 
naked, and the' most beauiiful scenery will always be 
fooiid in the vallies, and on banKS of the wooded 
streams. Such scenery is peculiary inleresliiigat the 
close of a suminer-day. As we advance northwards, 
the number olthe days of summer, indeed, diminishes ; 
but Irom this cause, as well as from the mildness ol the 
lemperaiure, the attraction of the season increases, 
aii(' the siimmer-nighi becomes still more beauliiiil. 
The gi eater otdiquiiy of the sun's path on the ecliptic, 
prolongs the grateful seasons of twilight lo the mid- 
night hours: and the shades of the evening seem lo 
mingle with the morning's ilawn. The rnijl poets of 
Scotland, as may be expected, associate in their song* 
the expressions of passion, with the most beautilul of 
their scenery, in tlie Uirest season ol the yar, and 
generally in tliose liours of the evening when the beau- 
ties of nature are mosi interesiing.' 

To all thece adventilious circumstances, on which 
so ranch of tlie eriect ol poetry depends, great atten- 
tion is paid by Burns. There is sc.ircely a single «r>ng 
of his, m which particular scenery is not descriueil, "r 

be.uily or interest: and though Ins dtscriptions im« 
not so' full as are sometimes met with in the older 
Scottish songs, they are in the highest degree ap|Mii- 
priate and inieresiing. instances in proof ufihis might 
be quoted from the Lea Hig, Hig/ilmid Mary, I'lia 
Soulier's Rlarii, Loga i Vi^alsr: from that beautiful 
paiioral lionnij jean, and a great number of others, 
(Jccisionahy the I'orce of his genius carries him btvoiid 

objects introdiicetl have more of the character ut si.O- 
limity. An instance uf this kind is noticed by Mr. 
Syme,t a"d many others mighl be adduced : 

* A lady, of whose genius the editor entertains high 
admiration (Mrs, Barbauld,) has fallen into an error 
ill this respect. In her prefatory address to the woiks 
of Collins, speaking of the natural objects that may 
be employed to give interest to the descriptions of 
passion, she observes, "they present in inexlianstihl| 
variety, from the Song of .Solomon, breathing of ca» 
sia, myrrh, and ciiinamon, to the Gentle Shepherd ol 
Ramsay, whose damsels carry their milkmg-|jaili 
through the frosts aiul snow of their lens genial but 
not less pastoral country." The damsels of Ramsay 
do not walk in the midst of frost and snow, Almoei 
all the scenes of the Gentle Shepherd are laid in iie 
open air, amidst beauiiful natural objects, and »; the 
most genial seasmi of the year, Ramsay intr-jduces 
all his acts with a prefatory description to ass'jre nsof 
this. The fault of the climate of Britain 's not, 
that it does not afford us the beauties of summer 
but that the season of such beauties is compara 
lively shori, and even uncertain. There are day» 
and nights, even in the northern division of ihe i» 
land, which equal, or perhaps surpass, what are to 
be found in the latitude of Sicily, or o( Greece.— 
Buchanan, when he wrote his exquisite Odj to My 
fell the cimrin as well as the transieiitD»ss of ih««« 
hapjiy days : 

Salve fugacis gloria secuU, 
Salve seciinda digna Ins nota 
Salve vetiista vita: imago. 
El specimen Vboientis /livi. 

T S»« pp, 37. iK 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



sr 



* Fiad I a cave on some wild, diaiaul shore. 
Where ihe winds bowl to the waves' dashing 
roar : 
There would I weep my woes. 
There eeek my last repose, 
Till grief ray eyes should close 
Ne'er to wake more." 

In one song, the scene of which is laid in a winter- 
night, the " wan moon" is described as " setting be- 
hind the while waves; in another, the "storms" 
are apostrophized, and commanded to " rest in the 
CHVe of their slumbers," on several occasions the gen- 
ius of Burns loses sight entirely of his archetypes, and 
rises into a strain of uniform sublimity. Instances of 
this kind appear in lAbertie, a Vision ; and in his two 
war-sungs, Bruce to Ms Troops, and the Sons; of 
I)e ith. These last are of a description of which we 
hrrve no other in our language. The martial songs 
of our nation are not military, but naval. If we 
Were to seek a comparison of these songs of Burns 
with others 'if a similar nature, we must have re- 
c.un-se to the poetry of ancient Greece, or of modern 
(iaul. 

Burns has made an important addition to the songs 
of Scotland. In his compositions, the poetry equals 
and sometimes surpasses the music. He has enlarged 
the poetical scenery of his country. Many of her 
Tivers and mountains, formerly unknown to the muse. 
Hie now consecrated by his immi)rtal muse. The 
Doon, the Lngar, the Ayr, theNitVi, and the Cluden, 
will^in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the 
'i ay, be considered as classic slreams,and their bor- 
ders will be trodden with new and superior emotions. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns were written 
alter he removed into the county of DumlVies. Infiu- 
eiiced, perhaps, by habits formed in early life, he usu- 
ally composed while walking in the open air. When 
er.gaged in writing these songs, his favourite walks on 
the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, particularly 
near the ruins of Lincliiden Abbey ; and this beautiful 
scenery he has very happily described under various 
aspects, as it appears during the softness and ierenity 
of evening, and during the stillness and solemnity "I 
the moon-light night. 

There is no species of poetry, the productions of th"> 
the drama not excepted, so much calculated to intiu 
ence the morals, as well as the happiness of a people, 
S3 those po[Hilar verses which are associated with na- 
tioniil airs ; and which being learned in tlie years of 
infancy, make a deep impression onthe heart before the 
evolution of the powers of the iindcrslaiidiiiff. The 
compositions of Bin'jis of this kind, now presented in a 
collected form to the world, make a most important 
addition to the popular songs of his nation. Like all 
his other writings, they exhibit independence ot senti- 
ment ; they are peculiarly calculated to increase those 
ties which bind generous hearts to tlieir native soil, 
and to the domestic circle of their infancy; and to 
ciiL'rish those sensibilities which, under due restiic- 
tuni, torm the pures' happiness of our nature. If in 
his unguarded moments he compose<l some songs on 
which this praise cannot be bestowed, let us hope that 
ti.ey will speedily be forgotten. In several instances, 
where Scottish airs were allied to woids ol'jectionable 
in point of delicacy. Burns has substituted others of a 
|.iirer character. On such occasiuns, without chang- 
ing the subject, he has changed the sentiments. A 
proof of this may be seen in the air of John Anderson 
iiui Joe, which is now united to words that breathe a 
strain of conjugal tenderness, that is as highly moral 
as it is exquisitely affecting. 

Few circumstances could afford a more striking 
proof of the strength of Burns's genius than the gene- 
ral cin-nlalion of his poems in England, notwithstand- 
ing the dialect in which the greater part are written, 
and which might he iSpp'ssed to render them here iin- 
ciiutli or o'lscure. la some iiifiian.-ps he has used 
ibis dialect ou subjects of a sublime nature • Mtt in 

K 



general he confines it to 'sentiments or descriptions o 
a tender or humourous kind ; and where he uses inu 
elevation ot thought, he assumes a purer English style 
The singular faculty he possessed of mingling in ilii 
same poem, humorous sentiments mid descriptions 
with imagery of a suhlimeand terrific nature, eimbleJ 
him to use this variety of dialect on some occasion! 
with striking eftect. his poem of Tarn o'SAanler al 
fords an instance of this. TItere he passes from a scene 
of the lowest humour, to situations of the most awful 
and terrible kind. He is a musician that from tha 
lowest to the highest of his keys ; and the use of the 
Scottish dialect enables him to add two additional 
notes to the bottom of his scale. 

Great efforts have been made by the inhabitants of 
Scotland, of the superior ranks, to approximate in 
their speech to the pure Knglish standard; and this 
has made it difiicult to write in the Scottish dialect, 
without exciting in them some feelings of disgust, 
which in England are scarcely felt. An Englishinau 
who understands the meaning of the Scottish words, it 
not offended, nay, on certain subjects, he is perliajs, 
pleased with the rustic dialect, as he may be with the 
Doric Greek of Theocritus. 



But a Scotchman inhabiting his own country, if a 
man of education, and more especially if a literary 
character, has banished such words from his wriliiifs, 
and has attempted to, banish them from his speech : 
and being accustomed to hear them from the vulear, 
daily, does not easily admit of their use in poeuy, 
which requires a style elevated and ornainenial. A 
dislike of this kind is, however, accidental not nat- 
ural. It is one of the species of disgust which we ie*l 
at seeing a female of high birth in the d-ess of a rustic ; 
which, if she be really young and beautiful, a little 
habit will enable us tooverccir.?. A lady whocssumes 
such a dress, puts her beauty, indeed, to a severer tri- 
al. She rejects — she. indeed, opposes the influence of 
fashion ; she possibly abandons the grace of elegant 
and Rowing drapery ; but her native charms remain 
the more striking, perhaps, because the less adorned ; 
and to these she trusts for fixing her empire on those 
affecticns over which fashion has no sway . If she suc- 
ceeds, a new association arises. The dress of tht 
beautiful rustic becomes itself beautiful, and establishe* 
a new fashion for the young and gay. And when in 
after ages, the contemplating observer shall view her 
picture in the gallery that contains the portraits of the 
beauties of successive centuries, each in the dress ot 
her respective day, her drapery will not deviate., nioie 
than that of her rivals, from the standard of his taste, 
iiid he will give the palm to her who excels in the Iin 
eamenls of nature. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry of hit 
country, and by them their native dialed is universal- 
ly relished. To a numerous class of the natives of 
Scotland of anoiher description, it may alto be consid- 
ered as attractive in a different jioint of view. Kstrau- 
ged from their native soil, and spread over foreign 
lands, the idiom of their country unites with the seiiti. 
ments and llie descriptions on which it is ein|jU>ytd, to 
recal to their minds the interesting scenes of infitncy 
and youth — to awaken many pleasing, many tender 
re';ollections. Literary men, residing at Kdinburgh 
or Aberdeen, cannot judge on this point for one nun. 
dred and filly thousand of their expatriated couniry- 



* These observations are excited hy some remarks 
of respectable correspondents of the description alluded 
to. This calculation of the number of .Scotchmen Ur- 
ing out of Scotland is not altogether arbitrary, and it 
is probably below the truth. It is, in some degree 
founded on the proportion between the number of tht 
sexes in Scallaiid, as it appears from the invaluabU 
Statistics of Sir John Sinclair. For Scotchmen of ihii 
description, more particularly, ^'irns seems to haT . 
written his song, beginning, T/iei/ grovet o' «»«• 

2 



58 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



To the use of the Scottish dialect in one species of 
poetry, tlie composiiion uf songs, the taste ol the pub- 
lic has been tor some time reconciled. 'J'he dialect in 
question excels, as has already been observed, in the 
copiousness and exactness of its terms for natural oii- 
jecis ; and in pastoral or rural songs, it gives a Doiic 
Bim|)licily, which Is very generally approved. Neither 
does the regret seem well founded which some persons 
of taste have expresseu, Ihr.t Burns used this dialect 
in so many other of his compositions. His declared 
purpose was to paint the manners ot rustic life among 
his " humble compeers," and it is not easy to conceive 
that this could have been done with equal liumour 
and effect, if he had not adopted their idiom. There 
are some, indeed, who will think the subject too low 
for poetry. Persons of this sickly taste will find their 
delicacies consulted in many a polite and learned 
author: let them not seek for graiificalion in the 
rough and vigorous lines, in the unbridled humour, 
or in the overpowering sensibility of this bard of na- 
ture. 

To determine the comparative merit of Burns would 
be no easy task. Many persons, afterwards distin- 
guished in literature, have been born in as humble a 
■ituation of life ; but i« would be difficult to find any 
other who, while earning his su"bsistence by dally la- 
bour, has written verses which have attracted and re- 
tained universal attention, and which are likely to give 
the author a permanent and distinguished place among 

myrtle, a beautiful strain, which, it maybe confidently 
predicted, will be sung with equal or superior interest 
en the banks of the Ganges or of the Mississippi, as on 
ibose of the Taj or the T wtad. 



the followers of the muses. If h? Is defldent in i;rme«, 
he is distinguished for ease as well as energy ; aud 
these are indications of the higher ordei ol genius. — 
The father of epic poetry exhibits one of his heroes as 
excelling in strength, another in swiliness — to form 
his perfect warrior, these attributes are comhined — 
Every species of iniellectiia; superiority admits per- 
haps of a similar arrangement. One writer excels ni 
force — another in ease : he is superior to them both, 
in whom both these qualities are united. Of ho- 
mer himself it may be said, that, like his own Achillies, 
he surpasses his corr>peiitors in nobility as well ai 
strength. 

The force of Burns lay in the powers of his under- 
standing, and in the sensibility of his heart ; and these 
will be found to infuse the living principle into all the 
works of genius which seem destined to immortality. 
His sensibility had an uncoinnion range. He was 
alive to every species of emotion. He is one of the iew 
poets that can lie mentioned, who liave at once ex- 
celled in humour, in irmlerness, and in sublimity ; & 
praise unknown to the ancients, and which in rnodtrii 
times is only due to Ariusto, to Shakspeare, and per- 
haps to Voltaire To compaie the writings oi the 
Scottish peasant with the works of these giaiiis in lit- 
eratu^., might appear presumptuous ; yet it may he 
asserred that he has displayed tike foo't of HercuUa. 
How near he might have approached them by pro[)er 
cultur-e, with lengthened years, and under hajipiur 
auspices, it is not for us to calculate, liui wliilo we 
run over the melancholy story of his life, it is inipo.ssi- 
ble not to heave a sigh at the asperity of his fortune : 
and as we survey the records ofrtis mind, it is easv lo 
see, that out of such materials have been reairo tin 
fairest anil the mobt durable uf lbs mouiiaieois «i 
geaiiu. 



I 



TO 

DR. CURBXZ'S 

EDITION OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 



Is Impossible to dismiss this volume* of the Cor- 1 place in this volume, we have not hesitated to in«fti 
xiety as to I ihem, though thej' may not always correspond exacljf 



•^dence of our Bard, without 
tiie reception it may meet with. The experiment 
ue are making has not often been tried ; perhaps on 
no occasion lias so large a portion of the recent and 
unpremeditated effusions of a man of genius been 
committed to the press. 

Of the following letters of Burns, a considerable 
number were transmitted for publication, by the mdi- 
Tiduals to whom they were addressed ; but very few 
have been printed entire. It will easily be believed, 
that in a series of letters wriiten without the least 
Tiewto publication, various passages were lound unfit 
for the press, from different considerations. It will 
also be readily supposed, that our poet, writing near- 
ly at the same time, and under the same feelings to 
different individuals, would sometimes fall into the 
lame train of sentiment and forms of expression. To 
a»oiii, tnerelore, the tediousness of such repetitions, it 
bas been found necessary to mutilate many of the in- 
dividual letters, and sometimes to exscind parts of 
•great delicacy— the unbridled effusions of panegyric 
and regard. But though many of the letters are 
printed from originals furnished by the persons to 
whom they were addressed, others are printed from 
first draughts, or sketches, found among the papers of 
our Bard. Though in general no man committed his 
thoughts to his correspondents with less consideration 
cr effort than Burns, yet it appears that in some in- 
itonces he was disoatisfied with his first essays, and 
wrote out his communications in a fairer character, or 
perhaps in more studied language. In the chaos of 
his manuscripts, some of the original sketches were 
*bund ; and as these sketches, though less perfect, are 
fairly to be considered as the offspring ol his mind, 
where they have seemed in themselves worthy of a 

* Dr. Currie's edition of Burns's Works was origi- 
nally published in fow volumes, of which the follow- 
log CorrespoadeDce formed ihe secood. 



with the letters transmitted, which have been lost cr 
withheld. 



Our author appears at one time to have formed an 
intention of making a collection of his letters for the 
amusement of a friend. Accordingly he copied an in- 
considerable number of them into a book, which he 
presented to Robert Riddel, of Gienriddel, Esq.^ 
Among these was the account of his life, addressed to 
Doctor Moore, and printed in the first volume.* In 
copy ine from his imperfect sketches, (it does not ap. 
pear that he had the letters actually sent to his cor. 
respondents before him,) he seems to have occasionally 
enlarged his observations, and aliei-ed his expressions. 
In such instances his emendations have been adopted ; 
but in truth ihete are but five of th'j letters thus se- 
lected by the poet, to be found in the present volume, 
the rest being thought of inferior merit, or otherwise 
unfit for the jmblic eye. 

In printing this volume, the editor has found somg 
corrections of grammar necessary ; but these have 
been very few, and such as may be supposed to occur 
in the careless effusions, even of literary cr.aracterB, 
who have not been in the habit of carrying their com- 
positions tn the press. These corrections have never 
been extended to any habitual modes of expression of 
the poet, even where his phraseology may seem to v;. 
olate the delicacies of taste ; or the idion. of our Uii- 
guage, which he wrote in general with great accuracy. 
Some diiierence will indeed be found in this respect in 
his earlier and in his later compositions ; and this 
volume will exhibit the progress of his style, as well as 
the history of his mind. In the fourth edition, several 
new letters were introduced, and some of inferior im- 
portance were omitted. 

• Occupying from page 9 to page 16 of this 



GENERAL CORRESPOJVDEJVCE 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS 



LETTERS, &c. 



No. I. 



TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH 



SCHOOLMASTER, 
STiPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDoV. 
Lochlee, I5th January, 1783. 
DEAR SIR, 

As I haTe an opportunity of lending you a let- 
ter, without puitittg you to that expense which auy 
(<iouuctioii of mine would but ill repay, I embrace it 
Wiin pleasure, to tell you that I iiave not forgotten nor 
tver will lorpet, the many obligations 1 lie under to 
your kinduesA and friendship. 

I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to know what 
has ueen the result of all the pains of an indulgent fa- 
Iner, and a masterly teacher ; and I wish 1 could grat 
Ijy your curijsity with such a recital as v ou would be 
ineased with ; but that is what 1 am afraid will not 
be tlie c»se 1 have, indeed, kept pretty clear of 
Ticious hatjits ; and in lliia respect, 1 hope my conduct 
Will not dia^'race the education I have gotten : but as 
at man of the world, I am most miserably deficient.— 
One would have thought that bred as 1 ha\j been, 
uinler a father who has figured pretty well as un horn- 
me des affairns, 1 might have been what the world 
calls a pushing, active fellow ; but, to tell you the 
truth. Sir, there is hardly any thing more my reverse. 
1 seem to be one sent inio the world to see, and ob- 
serve ; and I very easily compound with the knave 
who (ricks me of my money, if there be any thing ori 
pNial about him which shows me human nature m a 
dirterent light from any thing I have seen before. In 
short, the joy of my heart is to '• study men, their 
manners, and their ways ;" and for this (larluig ob- 
ject, 1 cheerfully sacrifice every other consideration, 1 
am quite indolent about those great concerns that set 
tne bustling busy sons of care agog ; and if I have to 
answer for the present hour, I am very easy with re- 
gard to any thing further. Kven the last worthy 
tiil't, of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not 
much terrify me : I know that even then my talent 
fur wliat countryfolks call " a sensible crack " when 
once 11 IS sanctified by a hoary head, would procure me 
»o much esteem, that even then — 1 would learn to be 
Daijpy.* However, I am iinrier no apprehensions 
Iiooui that ; for, though indolent, yet, so far as an ex 
Ireineiy aeiicateconstiLUtioii permits, I am not lazy j 
»no in many things, especially in tavern-matters, 1 
k:ii a strict economist ; i;ot indeed for the sake of the 
••.•H.cv. out one of the principal parts in my composi 
iioo IS a giuu of pride of stomach, and I scorn to fear 



• The last shift alluded to h«re, must be the cendi- 
*i«u of an iiiueraiii beggar. 



the face of any man living ; abo»e every thing, t no. 
hor, as hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid 
a dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, whom lu 
my heart I despise and detest. 'Tislhis, and this 
alonei that emlears economy to me. In the matter 
of books, indeed, 1 am very profuse. My favourite 
authors are of the senlimental kind, such as Sfienetone, 
particularly his £/e»ies ; TkoTnson ; Man of Fi-eli 'g, 
a book I pri7,e next to the Bible ; Man of the World; 
S'eme, especially his Sentimental Journey ; M'P/ier- 
son's IJssian, &c. These are the glorious model* 
after which I endeavour to lorm my conduct ; and 't(« 
incongiuous. 'tis absurd, to suppote that the mau 
whose mind glows with the sentiments lighted up at 
their sacred flame— the man whose heart distends 
with benevolence to all the human race — he " whi» 
can soar above this little scene of things," can he de- 
scend to mind the paltry concerns about which th« 
terroefilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves? 
O how the glorious triumph swells my heart! I for- 
get that I am a poor insignificant devil, unnoticed and 
unknown, stalking up and down fairs and markets, 
when I happen to be in them, reading a page or two 
of mankind, and " catching the manners living as they 
rise," whilst the men of business jostle me on every 
side as an idle incumbrance in their >vay. 3iit I ('ar« 
say I have by this time tired your patience , so I shall 
conclude with hegeingyou to give Airs. Murdoch — not 
my compliments, for that is a mere common-place sto. 
ry, but my "'armesi, kindest wishes for her we.Yare J 
and acce[It of tlie »ame for yourself from, Dear Sir, 
Your's, &c. 



No. II. 

The following is taken from the MS. Prose presented 
by our Bard to Mr. Riddel. 

On rummaging over some old papers, I lighted on a 
MS. of my early years, in which 1 had determined to 
write myself out, as I was placed by fortune among a 
class of men to whom my ideas wouhi have been iioii- 
seiwe. I had meant thai the book should have lain by 
me, in the fond hope that, siurie time or other, even 
after 1 was no more, my thounhis would fall into th« 
hands of somebody capable cf appreciating their val- 
ue. U sets off thus : 

Obseroationa, Hints, Sjngs, Scraps of Poetry, 4c. 
by R. B.—& man who had little art in making money, 
and still less in keeping it ; but was, however, a man 
of some sense, a great deal of honesty, and untioirnded 
good will to every creature rational and irrational. — 
As he was bu', little indebted to scholastic education, 
and bred at a plough tail, his performances must be 
stroiiidy tinctured with his unpolished rustic way o( 
life : but as 1 believe they are really his owi, it may b* 
some rnieriainir.ent to a curious obsrrver of liu:nan 
utttiire, to «re how a nloiighinaii thinks and feels, uir 
der the oressure of love, ambition, anxiety, ji 1st. Wtlti 



LETTERS. 



61 



Itm like cares anrl p»<«slon», which, however diveral- 
fled hy the modes and rvinners of I'lo, npciate pretty 
.-nuch ahke, 1 believe, on nil the species. ■ 

" There are numbers in tte world who do not want 
»en«e to make a figure, so much as an opinion of llieir 
iwr. abilities, to put them upon recording their obser- 
fii-.iuns, and allowing them the same importance, 
which they do to those which appear m print." — ^hen- 



" Pleasing, when youth is long expii'J, to trace 
The forms our pencil or our pen designed ! 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind."— /iid. 

Apn.,nS3. 
Notwithstanding all that has been said against love, 
respeciuig the folly and weakness it leads a young in- 
e»i;erienced mind' into ; still i think it in a great 
measure deserves the highest encomiums that have 
been passed upon it. If any thing on earth deserves 
the name of rapture or transport, it is the feelings of 
preen eighteen, in the company of the mistress of his 
heiiri, when she repays him with an equal return of 
aSeciion. 



August. 
There is certainly some connexion between love, 
and music, and poetry ; and therefore 1 have always 
thought a fine touch of nature, that passage in a mod- 
ern love composition : 

" As tow'rd her cot he jogg'd along. 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part, I never had the least thought or 
inclination of turning poet, till I got once heartily m 
love ; and then rhyme and song were, in a manner, 
•he spontaneous language^l my heart. 

September. 
I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, Mr. 
Smith, in his excellent T/ieoiy of Moral .^entime?its, 
thai remorse is the most painful sentiment that can 
ienbitter the human bosom. Any ordinary pilch of for- 
titude may bear up tolerably well under those calami- 
ties, in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
had no hand ; but when our own follies, or crimes 
have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up with 
manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper 
penitential sense of our misconduct, is a glorious ef- 
fort of self command. 

" Of all the numerous ills that hurt ourTleace, 

That press the soul, or wring the mind withauguisli, 

Beyond comparison the worst are those 

That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance the mind 

Has to say — ' It was no deed of mine ;' 

But when to all the evils of misfortune 

This sting is added — ' Blame thy foolish self I' 

Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt— • 

Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others ; 

The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us, 

Nay, more, that very love their cause o( ruinl 

burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, , 
There's not a keener lash ! 

I,ives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
ifecls all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
Atr, after proper purpose of amendment, 
joc firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ? 
~i o»ppy! happy! enviable man ! 

1 jtl.oriouf magnanimity of soul I*' 



March, 17S4. 
I have often observed. In the course of mv ex|,pr» 
ence of human lile, that cviry man. even tlic W(;i«t, 
has something good about liim; though vervotieii no. 
ihnig eise ihtin a happy tem|jeramenl of cudstitnlion 
inclining him to this or that virtue. For tliis reasuii, 
no man can say in what degree any other person, tie- 
side himself, can be, with sttict jnsiite, called wirked. 
Let any of the strictest character for regularity nf con- 
duct among u«, examine impartially how many vices 
he has never been guilly of, not from any care or vigi- 
lance, but for want of opportunity, or sonie accicienial 
circumstance nuervening ; how many of the weak- 
nesses of mankind he has escaped, because he was out 
of the line of such temptation ; and, what often, if nut 
always, weighs more than all the resi , how much he is 
indebted to the world's good opinion, because the world 
does not know all. 1 say any man who can thus think, 
will scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes of 
mankind around him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of that part 
of mankind commonly known by the ordinary phrase 
of blnckguards, sometimps farther than was consist- 
ent with the safety of my character ; those who, by 
thoughtless prodigality or headstrong passions have 
been driven to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, 
sometimes" stained with guilt, * « • • • • ^'■ 
I have yet found among them, in not a few in. 
stances, some of the noblest virtues, magnanimity, 
generosity, disinterested friendship, and even mod- 
esty. 



April. , 
As I am what the men of the world, if they kne\» 
such a man, would call a whimsical mortal. 1 iiave va 
rious sources of pleasuie and enjoyment, which are, 
in a manner, peculiar to myself, or some htie and 
there such other oul-oflhe-way person. Such is the 
peculiar pleasure 1 take in the season of winter, more 
than the rest of the year. This, 1 believe, may be 
partly owing to my misfortunes giving mv mind a 
melancholy cast ; but there is something even in the 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 

Abrupt and deep,stretch'd o'er the buried earth."— 

which rises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable 
to every thing great and noble. There is scarcely any 
earthly object gives me more — 1 do not know if I 
should call it pleasure — but something which exalts 
me something which enraptures me — than to walk in 
the sheltered side of a wood, or high plantation, in a 
cloudy winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling 
among the trees and raving over the plain. It is amy 
best season for devotion ; my mind is rapt up in a kind 
of enthusia»ni lo Him, who in the pompous language 
of the H-'..iew bard, " walks on the wings of the wind." 
In or iot these seasons just altera train of misfortunes, 
f composed the following : 

The wintry west extends his blast, &c.— Poems, p. 2.5. 

Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses writ with- 
out any real passion, are the most nauseous of all con- 
ceits ; and 1 have often thought that no man can be a 
proper critic of love composition, except he himself, in 
one or more instances, have been a warm votary of 
this passion. As I have been all along a miserable 
dupe to love, and have been led into a thousand weak- 
nesses and follies by it, for that reason I jiut the more 
confidence in my critical skill, in distinguishing foppeiy 
and conceit from real passion and nature. Whether 
the following song will stand the test, Iwill not pretend 
to say, because it is my own ; only I can say it was, at 
the time genuine from the heart. 

Behind yon hills, &c_.— See Poems, p. 40. 



I think the whole species of young Then be pat* 
orally enoujib divided into two graud clasa-is, which 



62 



LETTERS. 



ehall call the grave and the merry ,- though, by the by, 
tliene terms do not with propriety eiiougl. express my 
ideas. The ^rave I shall cast inlo the usual division 
ol lliose who are goaded on by the love of money, and 
Uiose whose darling wish is to malve a figure in the 
world. The merry are, the men ot pleasure u. all de- 
nominations ; the jovial lads, wlio have too much fire 
and spirit to have any settled rule ot' action ; but, with- 
out much deliberation follow the strong impulses of 
nature . the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent 
— in particular he, who, with a happy sweetness of 
natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, 
steals through life — generally, indeed, in poverty and 
obscurity ; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to 
him who can sit gravely down and make a repining 
comparison between his own situation and that of oth- 
ers ; and lastly, to grace the quorum, such as are, gen- 
erally, those who.se heads are capable of all the tower- 
lugs of genius, and whose hearts are warmed with all 
•ne delicacy of feeling. 



As the grand end of human life is lo cuitivato an in- 
tercourse with that Being to whom we owe our life, 
with every enjoyment that can render life delightful ; 
and to maintain an iniegritive conduct towards our 
fellow-cieatur«s ; that so, by forming piety and virtue 
into habit, we may be fit members of that society of the 
pious and the good, which reason and revelation leach 
us to except beyond the grave ; 1 do not see that the 
turn of nund and pursuits of any son of poverty and 
obscuiity, are in the least more inimical to the sacred 
interests of piety and virtue, than the even lawf-l, 
l)iistliiig and straining alter the world's riches and 
honours ; and 1 do not see but that he may gam Hea- 
ven as well (which, by the by, is no mean considera- 
tion,) who steals through the vale of life, amusing him- 
self with every little flower^ that fortune throws in his 
way ; as he who, straining straight lorward, and per- 
haps bespattering all about him, gains some of life's 
little eminences ; where, after all, he can only see, and 
be seen, a Utile more conspicuously than what, in the 
pride of his heart, he is apt to term the poor indolent 
devil he has left behind biin. ■ 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tender- 
ness, in some of our ancient ballads, which show them 
lo be the work of a masterly hand ; and it has often 
given me many a heart-ache to reflect, that such glmi- 
ous old bardS'-bards who very prnbanly owed all their 
talents lo native genius, yet have described the ex- 
ploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointmenl, and the 
mellings of love, witli such fine strokesof naiui e — that 
their very names (O how mortifying to a bard's vani- 
ty ) are now " buried among the wreck ul' things which 
were." 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could feel so 
■irongly and describe so well : the last, the meanest 
of the muses' train — one who, though far inferior to 
your flights, yet eyes your path, and with trembling 
v/ing Would sometimes soar after you — a poor rustic 
bard unknown, pays this sympathelic pang to your 
memory 1 Some of you tell us with all the charms of 
Verse, that you have been unfortunate in tne world — 
Unfortunate in love ; he too has felt the loss of his little 
fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than all, tlie 
loss of a woman he adored. l.,ike you, all his conso- 
liition was his muse ; she taught him in the rustic mea- 
sures 10 complain. Happy couid he have done it with 
your strength of imagination and flow of verse ! May 
the turf lie lightly on your bones! and may you now 
enjoy that solace and rest which this world rarely gives 
to the heart tuned to all the feelings of poesy and 
lovel 

Th'e ii all worth quoting in my MSS and more than 
mii. 

R. B. 



No. IIL 

TO MR. AIKEN. 

The Gentleman to whom The Cotter's Satttrda^ Night 
is addressed. 

Ayrshire 1786. 
SIR, 

1 was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and set 
tied all our by-gcne matters between us. After 1 had 
paid him all demands, I made him the offer of the se- 
cond edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the 
first and readies!, which he declines. By his account 
the paper of a thousand copies would cost about twen- 
tyseven pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six- 
teen ; heofl'ers to agree to this for the punting, if 1 will 
advance for the paper ; but this you know, is ' u', of iny 
power, so farewell hopes of a second edition t'Jl I grow 
richer I an epocha, which, I think, will arrive at tba 
payment of the British national debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurls me so much in be- 
ing disappointed of my second edition, as not having 
it in my power to show my gratitude to Mr. tJallaii- 
tyne, by publishing my poem of The Brigs of Ayr. I 
would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were 
capable, in a very long life, of forgetting the honest, 
warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters inlo 
my interests. lam sometimes pleased with niyseU in 
my grateful sensations; but I believe, on the whole, I 
have very little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a 
virtue, the consequence of reflection, but sheerly the 
instinctive emotion of a heart loo inatleniive to al- 
low worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish 
habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations and 
movements within, respecting the excise. There are 
many things plead strongly against it, the uncertainly 
of getting soon into business, ;he consc^juences of my 
follies, which may perhaps make it impracticable for 
me to stay at home ; and besides, I have for some time 
been pining under secret wretchedness, fiom causes 
which you pretty well know — the pang of riisappoini- 
ment, the sting of pride, with some wandering slabs of 
remorse, which never fail lo settle on my vitals like 
vultures, when aiieniion is not called aw.-.y by the 
calls of society, or the vagaries of the muse. Even in 
the hour of social mirth, my gayety is the madness of 
an intoxicated criminal under the hands of an execu- 
tioner. All these reasons urge me lo go abroad ; and 
to all ihese reasons I have only one answer — the fetl- 
inss of a father. This, in the present mood lam in. 
overbalances every thing that can be laid in the scale 
against it. 



You may perhaps think it an extraTagant fanty, 

but it is a sentiment which strikes home to mj 
very soul ; though sceptical in some points of our cur- 
rent belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence for the 
reality of a life beyond the stinted bourn of our present 
existence : if so, then how should I, in the presence of 
that tremendous Being, the Author of existence, how 
should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me 
in the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in 
the smiling innocency of helpless infancy.' O thou 
great, unknown lower! thou Almighty God 1 who 
has lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me 
with immortality ! I have fieiiueniljr wandered from 
that order and regularity necessary for the perfection 
of thy workb, yet thou hast never >eft me uor forsaken 
me. 



Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have keen some* 
thing of the storm of mischief thickening over mv fol* 
ly-devoled head. Should you, my friends, my bene- 
factors, be successful in your afiiilicaiiuiis for me, pei^ 
haps it may not be in my power in that way to reap 
the fruilof your friendly efl'orts. What 1 hars wrillca 



LETTERS. 



63 



in the preoei.ng pages it the sattled tenor of my present 
rtaoiuiion; biu should iriimic.il circumstances I'orbiil 
me cloiing with your kind offer, or, eujoyiug it, only 
threaten to entail father misery— 



To tell the truth. I have little reason for complaint, 
BB the world, in general, has been kind to me, fully up 
to my deserts. 1 was, for some lime past, fast gelling 
into the pining, distrustful snarl of the misanthrope, i 
saw myself alone, until for the struggle of life, shrink- 
in"' at every rising cloud in the chance-directed aimos- 
ph'ere of fortune, while, all defenceless, 1 looked about 
in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at leasi 
never with the force it deserved, that this world is a 
busy scene, and a man a creature destined for a pro- 
gressive struggle ; and that however 1 might possess a 
warm heart, and inoffensive manners, (which last, by 
the by, was railier more than I could wellboasi) still, 
more than these passive qualities, there was some- 
Ihin? to be done. When all my school-fellows and 
youthful compeers (those misguided lew excepted who 
joined, to use a tienloo phrase, llie haUach07\s of ilie 
human race,) were striking off with eager hope and 
earnest intention some one or other of the many paths 
of busy lite, 1 was standing ' idle in the market place," 
or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to 
flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. 



You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors were a 
probability of mending them, 1 stand a fair chance, 
bni, according to the reverend V\ estniinsier divines, 
though conviction must precede conversion, it is very 
far from always implying it.' 



No. 1\. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP OF DCTNLOP. 

Ayrshire, 1786. 
MADAM, 

I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday when 
I was so much honoured with your order for my copies. 
and incomparably more by the handsome compliments 
you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully 
persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so 
feelingly alive to the titillations of applause, as the 
sons of I'arnassus ; nor is it easy lo conceive how ihe 
heart ofthe poor bard dances with rapture, when those 
whose character in life gives them a right to be polite 
judges, honour him with their approbation. Had you 
been thoroughly acquainted with me, Madam, you 
could not have touched my darling heart chord more 
sweetly than by noticing my aitempts to celebrate 
your dlustrious ancestor, the Siviour of his Country. 

•'Great patriot-hero ! ill-requited chief!" 

The first book I met with in my early years, which I 
perused with pleasure, was The Life of Hannibal; 
tlie next was The History of Sir William Wallace ; 
for several of my earlier years I had few other au- 
iliors ; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, af- 
ter the laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear 
over their glorious hut unfortunate stories. In those 
boyish days I remember in particular being struck 
with that part of Wallace's story where these lines 
occur — 

" Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 
I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day in my Una 
!i*lile allowed, and walked half a dozen of miles to pay 

• Thii letter was evidently wri*- . under the distress 
of mind occasioned by ourloel ^ »eparat>on from Mrs. 
durns. £. 



my respects to Leglen wotod, with as much deyoat en- 
thusiasm as ever pilgrim did to boreito ; and, as I ex- 
plored every den and dell, where I could suppose my 
heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (forevec 
then I was a rhymer) that my heart glowed with a 
wish to be able to make a kong on him iu some meatura 
equal to his merits. 



No. V. 

TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 

178S. 
MADAM, 

The hurry of my preparations for going abroad ha» 
hindered rne troni performing my promise as soon as i 
inlended, I have here sent a parcel of songs, &c. which 
never made their appearance, except to a friend oi 
two at most. Perhaps some of them may he no great 
entertainment to you ; but of that I am far from being 
an adequate judge. The song to the tune of £»7-ic/i 
Brinks, you will easily see the improprie'.y of exposing 
much, even in manuscript. 1 iliink, myself, it has 
some merit, both as a tolerable description of one of 
Na'ure's sweetest scenes, a July evening, and one of 
ihe finest pieces of Nature's workmanship, the finest, 
indeed, we know any thing of, an amisble, beautiful 
young woman ;• but I have no common friend to pro- 
cure me that permission, without which 1 would not 
dare to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware, Madam, what task the world 
would hssign me in this letter. The obscure bard, 
when any ofthe great condescend to take notice of him, 
should heap the altar with the incense of flattery. -- 
Their high ancestry, theirown great and godlike quali- 
ties and actions, should be recounted with the most 
exaggerated description. This, Madam, is a task for 
which I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain dis- 
qualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of your con- 
nexions in life, and have no access to where your real 
character is to be found — the company of your com- 
peers ; and more, 1 am afraid thai even the most re- 
fined adulation is by no means the road to your good 
opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever with 
grateful pleasure remember — the reception I got when 
1 had the honour of waiting on you at Stair, lam 
little acquainted with politeness ; but I know a good 
deal of benevolence of temper and goodness of heart. 
Surely, did those in exalted stations know how happy 
they could make some cl.isses of their inferiors \>v coii- 
descention and aflability, they would never stand so 
high, measuring out wiih every look the height of theri 
elevation, but condescend as sweetly as did Mrs. Ste 
wart of Slair. 



VI. 

In the name ofthe nint. Amen. We Robert Burnt 
by virtue of a warrant from Nature, bearing date th^ 
Twenty-fifth day of January, Anno Domini one thou- 
sand seven hundred and fifty-nine, f Poet Laureat ana 
Biird in Chief in and over ihe Districts and Countr:e3 
of Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of oldexlent, To 
our trusty and well-beloved William Chalmers and 
John M Adam, Students and I ractitioners in the an- 
cient a/Kl mysierious Scieure of Confounding Right 
and H^roig-. 

RIGHT TRUSTY, 

Be i< ( own unto you. That whereas, in the course 
of our care and watchings over the Order andi olice of 

•• The song enclosed is the oue beginning, 

'Twas even — the tlewy fields were green, &e. 



64 



LETTERS. 



•I! and sunrtry Ihe Manufacturers, Retailers, and 
Venders oi Poesy ; Bards, i oels, ! oeiaslers Rhym- 
rr%, Jinglers, Sonessieis, Ballau-i>iiigers, &c., &c., 
4c., &■•- , &c., male and leniale — We i.n.Te discovered 
a ce;lr-iii, * * *, netarioiis, abominable, and Wicked 
ii'Ong. or Bnllad, a copy whereof We have here encloa 
ed; (tir Win Iherfore is thai Ye pitch upon and 
api)oii)l the most execrable Individual ol'that moslexe- 
crable Species, known by the appellation, phrase, and 
niCKiiame of The Veil's YeUNowLe;' and, after having 
caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall 
ai noodtideof theday, put into the said wretch's merci- 
less hands the said copy of the said nefarious and wick- 
ed tJon^, to be consumed by fire in the presence of all 
Bdliolders, in abhorrence of, and terrorum to all such 
C'nmpo!<i/iO'!smi<}Composers.Anii this in no wise leave 
ye undone, but have it executed in every point as this 
Oar Mandate bears before the twenty fourth current, 
when in p.jrson, we hope to applaud your faithfulness 
and zeal. 

Giocn at Mnurhline, this twentie'.h day of Novem- 
ber, Ani'o Donnni one thousand seven hundred and 
eighly-six.t 

GOD SAVE THE BARD! 



No. VII. 

DR. BLACKLOCK, 

TO THE REVEREND MR. G. LOWRIE. 

REVEREND AND DEAR SIR, 

I ought to have acknowledged your favour long ago, 
not only as a testimony of your kind remembrance, 
out as it gave me an opportunity of sharing one of the 
finest, and, perhaps, one uf\the moat genuine enter 
lamrnents, of which the human mind is susceptible. A 
number uf avocations retardeil my progress in reading 
the poems; at last, however, I have finished that 
pleasing perusal. Many instances have I seen of Na- 
ture's force and beneficence exerted under numerous 
and .'brmidable disadvantages ; hut none equal to that 
wilh which you have been kind enough to present me. 
There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious poems, a 
vein of wit and humour in those of a more festive turn, 
which cannot be too much admired, nor too warmly 
approved ; and i think 1 shall never open the book 
without feeling my astonishment renewed and in 
creased. It was my wish to have expressed my ap- 
probation in verse ; but whether from declining life, or 
a temporary depression of spirits, it is at present out 
of my power to atcomulish Uiat agreeable iut^ntion. 



Mr. SlewAri, rroiessor of Morals tii uilB Ji 
ly, had formerly read me three of the pocins, and J 
had desired him to gel my name inserted aiBu^g the 
BubscriOers ; but whether thiii was done, Oi no>, I 
never could learn. I have Utile intercourse with Dr. 
Blair, but will take care to have the poems communi- 
cated to him by the intervention of some mutual 
friend. It has been lold me by a Gentleman, to whom 
I fliowed the performances, and who sought a copy 
with diligence and ardour, that the whole impression 
is already exhausted. It were, therefoie, much to 
be wished, for the sake of the young man, that a sec- 
ond edition, more numerous than the former, could 
immediately be printed ; as it appears certain liiatits 
intrinsic merit and the exertion of the author's friends, 
might give it a more universal circulation than any 
tiling of the kind which has been published w''hin my 
memory.} 

* Old Bachelors. 

t Encloted was the ballad, probaM.v Holy Willie's 
Player. E. 

7 The reader will perceive thai this is the letter 
which produced the determination of our Bard to give 
up his scheme of going to tlie VV i.-si Indies, and to try 
the faie of a new Edition ol his 1 oeiii* in E<)iiibur;^li. 



No. VIII. 

FROM THE REVEREND MR. LOWRIg. 

22d December, 1786. 
DEAR SIR, 

I last week received a letter from Dr. Blackluck, «J 
which he expresses a desire of seeing you, 1 wiiit tl 
to you, that you may lose no time in walling upon liin 
should you not yei have seen hira. 



I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your rising fame 
and 1 wish and expect it may tower still highei'by ih 
new puhlicalion. But, as a friend, I wain you to pre 
pare to meet with your share of detraction and envy— 
a train that always accompany greal men. Forynui 
comfort I am in great hopes that the number of your 
friends and admirers will increase, and that you iinve 
Some chance of ministerial, or even • • « • . 
oatronage. Now, my friend, such rapid success is ve- 
ry uncommon.: and do you ihink yoursell in no danger 
of suffering by applause aud a full purse .'' Kenirmbel 
.S.iluinon'!: advice, which he spoke from experience, 
" stronger is he that conquers," &c. Keep last liold 
of your rural siin|j|icily and purity, like 're'leniiiclius, 
by Mentor's aid, in Calypso's isle, or even in thai ol 
Cyprus. I hope you have also Minerva with you. I 
need not tell you how much a modest djfhdence and 
luvincihle lemperance adorn the most shining talents, 
and elevate the mind, and exalt and refine the iiiiugi- 
nalion, even of a poet. 

I hnjie you will not imagine I speak from suspicion nr 
evil report. I assure you 1 speak from love anil good 
report, and good opinion, and a strong desire to see 
you shine as much in the sunshine as you h?.ve done in 
the shade , and in the practice, as you do in the the 
ory of virtue. This is my prayer, in return for your 
elegant C'inpositinn in verse. All here join in coi'iipli- 
ments and good wishes for your further prosperity. 



No. IX. 



TO MR. CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, TUn December, 1786, 
MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I ciuilesa i have siimed the sin for which there ii 
hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to friendship— in 
not writing to you sooner ; but of all men living, I had 
intended to send yon an entertaining letter; and hy 
all the plodding stupid powers tliatin nodding conceit- 
ed majesty preside over the dull routine of business — a 
heavily solemn oath lliis ! — 1 am, and have been ever 
since 1 came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a lellei of 
humour as to write a commentary on the RevelaLionn. 



To make you some amends for what, before you 
reach lliis jiaragraph you will have sufTered, I enclose 
you two poems 1 have carded and spun since I pjssed 
Gleiibuck. One blank in the address to Edinbinuh, 

" Fair B ," is the heavenly Miss Burnet, dimgh 

ter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I had the hon- 
our to be inure than once. There has not been any 
thing nearly like her, in all the combinations ol beau'v, 
grace, and goo<lnes8, the great Creator has f'ormeil, 
since Milton's Eve on the firsi day of her exislenn- 

I have sent you a parcel of subscription bills ; and 
huve wri.ien to Mr. Ballantyne and Mi. Aiken, to 
call on you for some of them, it they want them. My 

A ciijiy of this letter was sent by Mr. Lowrie to Mr. 
G. Hamilton, and by him communicated to Burns. 
ani'ing whose papers it was found. 

For an account of Mr. Lowrie and his famil ', ee« 
thf iftter of (iiibert Burns to the Kditor. 



LETTERS. 



65 



Anction te— care 
Brtdge-«tFeet. 



of Andrew Bruce, Mercliaril, 



N(». X. 

TO THE Earl, of eglinton. 

Edinburgh, January, 1787. 
MY LORD, 

As 1 have but slender pretensions to philosophy, ] 
cannot riw to the exalted ideas of a citizen of the 
woi 1(! ; but have all those national prejudices which, I 
believe, grow peculiarly strong in the breast of a 
Scotchman. There is scarcely any thine to which 
&m so feelingly alive, as the honour and welfare of 
my country ; and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoy 
ment than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had 
cast my station in the veriest shades of life ; but never 
did a heart pant more ardently than mine, to be tlis- 
tingiilihed ; though, till very lately, I looked in vain 
on every e!d> for a ray of light. It is easy, then, to 
guess how much 1 was gratilied with the countenance 
and approbation of one of my country's most illustri- 
ous sons when iVIr. Wauchope called on me y sterday 
on the part of your Lordship. Your munificence, my 
Lord, certainly deserves my very grateful acknow- 
letigmenls ; but your patronage is a bounty peculiarly 
•uited to my feelings. I am not master enough of the 
etiquette of life, tn know whether there be nut some 
impropriety in troubling your Lordship with my 
thanks ; but my heart whispered me to do it. From 
the emotions of my inmost soul 1 do it. Selfish ingrat- 
itude, I hope, I am incapable of; and mercenary ser 
»ilitT. I trust I shall ever have so mu.;h honest pride as 
to detegt. 



No. XI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, \5th. January, 1787. 
MADAM, 

Yours of the 9th current, which I am this moment 
honoured with, is a deep reproach to me for ungratetul 
neglect. I will tell^ou the real truth, for I am miser- 
ably awkward at a fib ; I wished to have written to 
Dr. Moore before I wrote to you ; but though, every 
day since I received yours of December 30th, the itlea, 
the wish to write to him, has constantly pressed on my 
thoughts, yet 1 could not for my soul set about it. I 
know his fame and character, and I am one of " the 
ioiisof little men." To write him a mere matter-of- 
fact affair, like a merchant's order, would be disgra- 
cing the little character I have ; and to write the an- 
Ihorof The Vi w of . ociety and Manners a letter of 
•eiitimeiil — 1 declare every artery runs cold at the 
thought. 1 shall try, however, to write to him to-mor- 
row or next day. His kind iriter])OSitioii in my behalf 
1 have already experienced, as a ei,iillein.^u wailed on 
me the other day on the part of Lord Kglington, with 
ten guineas, by way of subscriptiou for two copies of 
my next edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I have made 
of my glorious countryman and your immortal ances- 
tor, is indeed borrowed from Thomson ; but it tloes 
not strike me as an improper epithet. I distrusted my 
own jiidsment on your finding fault with it, and ap- 
plied for the opinion of some of the literati here, who 
honour me with their critical strictures, and they all 
allow it to be proper. The song you ask I cannoi re- 
collect, and 1 have not a copy of it. I have not com- 
posed anv thing on the great Wallace, except what 
you have seen in print, and the inclosed, which I will 
Vrint ill this edition.* You will see I have mentioned 

* Stanzas in t -e Vision, beginning " By stately 
ower or iialace fair," and ending with the first Duan. 



ight 



some others of the name. When I composer! my 

Fi.-.70)! lung iigo, I iilieiiipted n iieatription of Koyie, 
of which ilie additiouul stanzas uie a pun, as il 
origiimlly stood. My hea-t glows with a wish to 
be able to do justice to the merits, of ine Saviour of 
his Counti-y, which, sooner or later, J shall at leas'l 
attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my 

prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, 1 know myself 
and the world too well. 1 do not mean any airs ol 
affected modesiy ; I am willing to believe that my 
abilities deserved suiiie notice ; but in a must t 
eucd, inlornied age and nation, when poetry 
hi.s been the study of men ol the first natural genius, 
allied with all the powers of polite learning, polite 
books, and polite company— to be dragged lurth to the 
fjill glare of learned and polite observation, with all 
rny imperfections of awkward rusticity and crude iin- 
pulished Ideas ou my head— 1 assure you, Manam, . 
do not dissemble when 1 tell you I tiernble tor ihe con- 
sequences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situa- 
tion, without any of those advantages which are reck- 
oned necessary for that character, at least at this 
tine of day, has raised a partial tide of public notice, 
which has borne me to a height where 1 am absolute 
ly feelingly certain my abilities are inadtquale If 
support me ; and toiisi:,ely do I see that time wher 
the sjime tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, ai 
far below the mark of truth. 1 do not say this in the 
ridiculous affectation of self-abasement and modesty. 
1 have studied myself, and know what ground 1 occu- 
py ; and, however %i friend or the world maydifier 
from me in that particular, Island for my own oiiii'iioi, 
in silent resolve, with all the lenaciousness ol prosper- 
ty. I mention this to you, once for all, to disburden 
my mind, and I do not wish to hear or say more about 
it. But 

•• 'When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes," 

you will bear me witness, that, when my bubble m* 
fame was at the highest, I stood, uniutcxicated, with 
the inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward with 
ruel'ul resolvt to the hastening time when the blow of 
Calumny should dash it to the ground, with ail the 
eagerness of vengeful triumph. 



Your patronising i>,c, and interesting yourselfin my 
fame and character as a poet, I rejoice in ; it exaiti 
me In my own idea ; and whether you can or cannot 
aid me in my subscription is a trifle. Has a paliry 
subscription-bill any charms to the heart of a bard, 
compared with the patronage of the descendant oi 
the immortal 'Wallace i 



No. XII. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

1787. 
SIR, 
Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me ex 

tracts of letters she has had fiotn you, where you do 
the rustic bard the honour of nolicing him and hig 
works. Those who have felt the anxieties and solici- 
tude of authorship, can only know what pleasure it 
gives to be noticed in such a manner by judges ol tne 
first character. Your criticisms, Sir, I receive with 
reverence ; only I am sorry they mostly came too 
late ; a peccant passage or two, that 1 would certainly 
have altered, were gone to the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the 
greater part of those even who were authors of repute, 
an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first am- 
bition was, and still my strongest wish is, to pleat* 
my compeers, the rustic inmates ot the humlet, while 
ever-changing language and manners shall allow mo 
to he relished and uudeislood. 1 am very wiilini; la 
admit that 1 have some poetical abilities ; and a.* \*nt 



66 



LETTERS. 



SIR, 



If any writers, either moral or political, are intimately 
acquaiiiiea with llie classes of manlcijid anfciig whom I 
have chiefly ininsleil, I may have seen men and man- 
ners in a difTereut phasie from what is common, which 
rnay assist originality of thought. Still I Itnow very 
well the novelty of my charac'.er has by far the great- 
est share in the learneil and polite notice I have lately 
had ; and in a language where i^ope and Churchill 
h.ive raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn 
• he tear — where I'homson and tJeatlie have painted 
the landscape, and Lyttleton and Collins described the 
heart, I arn not rain enough to hope lor diitiaguiibed 
poetic fame. 



No. XIII. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 
Clifford-street, January 23d, 1787. 

I liave just received your letter, by which I find 1 
have rea?on to complain of my friend Mrs. Dunlop, for 
transmitting to you extracts from my letters to her, 
by much too freely and too carelessiy written for your 
perusal. I must forgive her, however, in considera- 
tiiin of her good intention, as yon will forgive me, I 
hope, for the freedom I use with certain expressions, 
III coiisideralion of my admiration of the poems in gen- 
eral. Ifl may judge of the author's disposition from 
his works, with all the good qualities of a poet, he has 
not the irritable temper ascribed to that race of men 
by one of their own number, whom you have the hap- 
pinesB to resemble in ease and curious felicity of ex- 
pression. Indeed the poetical beauties, however ori- 
ginal and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, are not all 
1 admire in your works ; the love of your native conn- 
try, that feeling sensibility to all the objects of human- 
ity, and themdependent spirit which breathes through 
the whole, give me a most favourable impresi>ion of the 
poet, and have made me oflen reeret that I did nol see 
the poems, the certain effect of which would have been 
my seeing the author last summer, when I was longer 
in Scotland than 1 have been for many years. 

1 rejoice very sincerely at the encouragement you re- 
ceive at Edinburgh, and I think you peculiarly fortun- 
ate in the patronage of Pr. Blair, who I am informed 
interests himself very much for you. I beg to be re- 
mpiTvliered to him ; nobody can have a warmer regard 
for that gentleman than I have, which, independent 
of the worth of his character, would be kept alive by 
the memory of our common friend, the late Mr. George 

Before I received your letter, I sent inclosed in a let- 
ter to , a sonnet by Miss Williams a young poe- 
tics! lady, which she wrote on reading yonr Mountain- 
Daisy ; perhaps it may not displease you.' 

I have been trying to add to the number of your sub- 
scribers, but find many of my acquaintance are already 

* The Sonnet is as follows : 
'Vhile soon " the garden's flaunting flow'rs" decay 

And scatter'd on the earth neglected lie, 
The "Mountain-Daisy," cherish'd by the ray 

.4. poet drew from heaven, shall never die. 
Ah ! like the lonely flower the poet rose I 

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale : 
He felt each storm that on the mountain blowg, 

Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale. 
By genius in her native vigoLU- nursed. 

On nature with impassion'd look he gazed. 
Then througi, the cloud of adverse fortune burst 

Indignant, and in the light unhorrow'd blazed. 
Scotia ! from rude alBictions shield thy bard, 
Uis heaveu-laughtnuinberg Fame herself will -uard 



among them. 1 have only to add, that with ertrf 
sentimeni uf esteem and the most cordial good wiahe* 
I am, 

Your obedieut, bumble serrant, 
J. MOORfi. 



No. XIV. 

TO THE REV. G. LOWRIE, OP NEW-MILLS 
NEAR KILMARNOCK, 

Edinburgh, 5th 2^eb. 1787. 
REVEREND AND DEAR SIR, 

When I look at the date of your kind letter, my 
heart reproaches me severely with ingratitude in neg- 
lecting so long to answer it. I will nol trouble you 
with any account, by way of apology, of my hurried 
life and distracted attention: do me the justice to be- 
lieve that my delay by no means proceeded from want 
of res^ject. I feel, and ever shall feel, for yon, the 
mingled sentiments of esteem for a friend, and rever- 
ence for a father. 

I thank you, Sir, with all my soul, for your friendly 
hints ; though I do not need them so much as my 
friends are apt to imagine. You are dazzled with 
newspaper accounts and distant reports ; but in reali- 
ty, I have no great temptation to be intoxicated with 
the cu[j7)f prosperity. Novelty may attract the atten- 
tion of mankind awhile ; to it I owe my present eclat ; 
but I see the time not far distant, when the popular 
tide, which has borne me to a height of whicn lam per- 
haps unworthy, shall recede with silent celerity, and 
leave me a barren waste of sand, to descend at my leis- 
ure to my former station. I do not say this in the af 
fectation of modesty ; I see the consequence is una 
voidable, and am prepared for it. I had been at a 
good deal of pains to form a just, impartial estimate of 
my intellectual powers, before 1 came here; I have 
not added, since I came to Kdinh'irgh. anv thing to the 
account ; and trust 1 shall take every atom ot it back 
to my shades, the coverts of my unnoticed, early 
years. 

In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, I have 
found, what I would have expected in our friend, a 
clear head and an excellent heart. 

By far the most agreeable hour^I spend in Edin- 
burgh must be placed to the account of Miss Lowrie 
and her piano-forle. I cannot help repeating to you and 
Mrs. Lowrie a ciimplimeiit that Mr. Mackenzie, the ce- 
lebrated 'Man of Feeling,' paid to Miss Lowrie the oth- 
er night, at the concert. I had come in at the interlude, 
and sat down by him, till I saw Miss Lowrie in a seat 
not far distant, and went up to pay my respects to her. 
On my return to Mr. Mackenzie, he asked me who she 
was ; I told him 'twas the daughter of a reverend 
friend of mine in the west country. He returned. 
There was something very striking, to his idea, in her 
appearance. On my desiringto know what it was, he 
was pleased to say, " She has a great deal of the ele- 
gance of a well brea lady about her, with all the sweet 
simplicity of a country girl." 

My compliments to all the happy inmates of Saint 
Margarets. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Yours most gratefully, 

ROBT. BURNS. 



XV. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, I5th February, 1787. 
SIR, 

I ardon my seeming neglect in delaying so long 10 
acknowledge the honour you have done me, in yoiir 
kind notice of me, January 23d. Not many mouth* 



LETTERS. 



67 



«go, I knew no other employment than following the 
(.•lou^ti, Dorcoulii boast any thing higher than a distant 
acqii»iiitance with a country clergyman. Mere great 
ness never embarrassea me : I have nothing to aslt from 
the great, and 1 do not fear their judgment ; but 
genius, polished by learning, and at its proper point 
of elevation in the eye ol the world, this of late 
I Irequenlly meet with, and tremble at its approach. 
I scorn the affectation of seeming modesty to cover 
self conceit. That I have some merit, 1 do not deny; 
but I see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the 
novehy of my character, and the honest national 
prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a 
heigiit altogether untenable to my abilities. 

For the houour Miss W. has done me, please, Sir, 
retuin her, in my name, my most grateful thanks. 1 
have more than once thought of paying her in kind, 
but have hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless despon- 
dency. I had never before heard of her; but the oth- 
er day I got her poems, which for several reasons, 
some belonging to the head, and others the offspring of 
the heart, gave me a great deal of pleasure. 1 have lit- 
tle pretensions to critic lore ; there are, I think, two 
characteristic features in her poetry — the unfettered 
wild flight of native genius, and the querulous, sombre 
tenderness of time-settled sorrow. 

I only know what pleases me, often without being 
able to tell why. 



No. XVI. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford-Street, 26JA February, 1787. 
DKAR SIR, 

Your letter of the 15th gave me a great deal of plea- 
sure. It is not surprising that you improve in correct- 
ness and taste, considering where you have been for 
some time past. And I dare swear there is no danger 
jf yr-ur admitting any polish which might weaken the 
rigour of your native powers. 

I am glad to perceive that you disdain the nauseous 
»flectrtiion of decrying your own merit as a poet, an 
Affectation which is displayed with most ostentation 
by those who have the greatest share of of seif-concei 
and which only adds undeceiving falseliood to disgus 
ing vanity. Fot» you to deny the merit of your 
poems, would be arraigning the fixed opinion of the 
public. 

As the new edition of my View of Society is not yet 
ready, 1 have sent you the former edition, which 1 beg 
you will accept as a small mark of my esteem. It is 
Sent by sea to the care of iVlr. Creech ; and along with 
these four volumes for yourself. 1 have also sent my 
Medical .aketches, in one volume, for my friend Mrs. 
Dimlop, of Dunlop : this, you will be so obliging as to 
ti-ansmit, or, if you chance to pass soon by Dunlop, 
to give to her. 

I am happy to hear that your subscription is so am- 
ple, and shall rejoice at every piece of good fortune 
that befalls you, for you are a very gi-eat favourite in 
my family ; and this is a higher complimentthan, per 
haps, vou are aware of. It includes almost all the 
professions, and, of course, is a proof that your writ 
injs are adapted to various tastes and situations. My 
youngest son, who is at Winchester School, writes to 
me that he is translating some stanzas of your Hallow 
E'eii into Latin verse, for the benefit of his comrades. 
This union of -taste partly proceeds, no doubt, from 
the cement of Scottish partiality, with which ihey are 
«.ll somewhat tinctured. Even your translator, who 
left Scotland too early in life for recollection, is not 
withou' it 



No. XVII. 



I, with great sincerity. 

Your obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 
MYLORU. Edinburgh, 1^1. 

1 warned to purchase a profile of your Lordship, 
which I WHS told was to l>e got in town ; but 1 am tru- 
ly sorry to see that a blu.idering painter lias spoiled 
a " human face divine." The enclosed stanzas 1 in- 
tended to have written below a picture or jirofile of 
your Lordship, could 1 have been so happy as to pro- 
cure one with any thing of a likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted to 
have something like a material object for my gratitude ; 
I wanted to have it in my power to say to a friend, 
There is my noble patron, my generous benefactor. 
Allow, me, my Lord, to publish these verses. 1 con- 
jure your Lordship, by the honest ihroe of gratitude, 
by the generous wish of benevolence, by all the powers 
and feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, 
do not deny me this petition.' I owe much to yout 
Lordship ; and, what has not in some other instances 
always been the case with me, the weight of the obliga- 
tion is a pleasing load. I trust I have a heart asiinlt 
pendent as your Lordship's, than which I can say no 
thing more : And I would not be beholden to favour s 
that would crucify my feelings. Your diffnified cha- 
racter in life, and manner of supporting that charac- 
ter, are flattering to my pride ; and 1 would be jealous 
of the purity of my grateful attachment where 1 wai 
under the patronage of one of the much-favoured soiif 
of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, parti 
cularly when they were names dear to fame, and il 
Instrious in their country ; allow me, then, mj 
Lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic merit, 
to tell the world bow much I have tlie honour to be. 
Your Lordship's highly indebted, 

and ever grateful bumble servant. 



No. XVIII. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

MY LORD, 

The honour your Lordship has done me, by youl 
notice and advice in yours of the 1st instant, 1 shal 
ever gratefully remember : 

" Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast. 
They best can gi ve il who deserve it most.' ' 

Your Lordship touches the darling chord of my 
heart, when you advise me to fire my muse at Scot- 
tish story and Scottish scenes. I wish for nothinj 
more than to make a leisurely pilgrimage through my 
native country : to sit and muse on those once hard- 
contended fields where Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her 
bloody lion borne through broken ranks to victory 
and fame ; and catching the inspiration, to pour the 
deathless names in song. 13ut, my Lord, in the 
midst of these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, 
dry, moral-looking phantom strides across myimaglna 
tion, and pronounce these emphatic words : 

" 1 wisdom, dwell with prudence. Friend I do no» 
come to open the ill-closed wounds of your follies and 
misfortunes, merely to give you pain ; I wish thrnugh 
these wounds to imprint a lasting lesson on your heai I 
1 will not mention how many of my salutary aavices 
you have despised ; I have given yon line upon line 
and precept upon precepi ; and while 1 was chalking 
out to you the straight way to wealth and character 

* It does not appear that the Earl granted this rci- 
quest nor have the verses alluded to been found amon|E 
the MSS. E. 



68 



LETTERS. 



No. XX. 



with audacioui affrontery, you have rig-ragged across unanimously, grant power and liberty to ihe aald Rw- 
tiie path, coiitemimis me lo my face ; you know the 1 ben Burns lo erect a headsioue at ilis grave oltiiesaia 
cor.sequences. It is nol yet Uiree monthB since home Robert Fergusson, audio keep up and preserve the 
y/a.6 ao hot for you, that y->u were on the 'wing lor same to his memory iu all tune coming, i^xi.racted 
the western shore of the Atlantic, not to make a lor- forth of the records of the managers, by 
tune, but lo hide your mislortuue. WILLIAM Sr ROT, Cieri 

"Now that your dear-loved Scotia pots it in your 
power to return to the situation of your forefathers, 
Wiii . i)U follow these W'lll-o'-Wisp meteors of fancy 
and whim, till they bring you ouce mure to the brink 
ul ruiu.'' 1 grant that the "utmost grouird you can oc- 
cupy is biu half a step from the veriest poverty ; but 
ttili it is half a step from it. If all Ihail can urge be 
ineri'tctual, let lier who seldom calls to you in vain, let 
the call of pnde, prevail with you. You know how 
y.iuleel at the grip of ruthless oppression ; you know 
how you bear the galling sneer of contumelous great- 
ness. 1 hold you out tlie conveniences the comforts of 
life, independence and character, on the one hand ; I 
tender you servility, dependence, and wretchedness, 
on the other, 1 will not uisuli your uuderstandiug by 
bidding you make a choice.'" 

This, my Lord, is unanswerable. I must return to 
my humble station, and woo my rustic muse in my 
Wonted way at the plough-tail. Still, my Lord, while 
the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude lolliatdear 
loved country in which 1 boast my birth, and gratitude 
to those her distiugiuslictl sous, who have honoured 
me so much with their patronage ami approbation, 
•hall while ste^ahng through my humble shades, ever 
distend my bosom, and al limes, aa now, draw forth 
the swelling tear. 



No. XIX. 

Ext. Property in favour of Mr. Robert Burns, to erect 
and keep up a Headstone in memory of foet Fer- 
gusson, 1787. 



SessionHnuee within th" Kirk of Cannongate, the 
tWKnly-second day of february, one thousand seven 
hundred and eighty-seven yeara. 

skderunt of the managers op the 
kirk and kirk-yard funds of can- 

nongate. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said funds produced 
a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of dale ihe sixth cur- 
rent, which was read, and appointed to be engrossed 
III their sederunlbook, and of which letter the tenor 
follows : " To the Honourable Baihes of Cannongate, 
Edinburgh. Gentlemen, 1 am sorry to be told, ihat 
the ri-mains of Robert Feigusson, the so justly cele- 
brated poet, a man whose talents, for ages to come, 
will do honour to our (Jaledonian name, lie in your 
church-yard, among the ignoble dead, unuoticed and 
Unknown. 

" Some memorial to direct the steps of the lovers 
of Scottish Song, when they wish to shed a tear, 
over the ' narrow house' of the bard who is no more, 
is surely a tribute due to Fergusson > memory; a 
tribute 1 wish to have the honour of paying. 

" I petition yon, then, gentlemen, to permit me to 
lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, lo remain an 
nnalieuahle properly to his deathless fame. 1 have the 
honour to be, Gentlemen, your very obedient servant, 
{sic aabscribilur,) 

"ROBERT BURNS." 

Thereafter the said managers, in consideration of 
the laudable and disinterested motion of Mr. Burns, 
and the propriety of his request, did and hereby do. 



TO 

MY DEAR SIR, 

You may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish, 
ungratetul fellow, having received so many repealed 
instances of kindness from you, and yet never pi'',,i,.j; 
pen to paper lo say— ihaiik you : but if you knew wnai 
a devil of a life my conscience has led me on thai ac- 
count, your good heart would Ihilik yourself too nmch 
avenged. By ilie by, there is nothing in the » lime 
frame of man which seems to ine so unaccountable as 
that thing called conscience, uad the troublesome, 
yelping cur powers etficienl to prevent a mischief, lie 
might be of use ; but al the beginning of the busllle^s, 
his feeble efforts are lo Ihe workings of passion as the 
iiilanl frosts ol an autumnal morning lo the unclouded 
fervour of the rising sun : and no sooner are the tu- 
multuous doings of the wicked deed over, than, amidst 
the bitter native consequences of lolly in the very vor- 
tex of our horrors, up starts conscience, and liariuws 
us with the feelings ot the d 

I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, some 
verse and prose, that if they merit a place in your 
truly enteriaiuing miscellany, you are welcome to. 
The prose extract is literally as Mr. Sprol sent 



The Inscription of the atone is a* followi t 
HERE LIES 

ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. 

Born, September 5th, 1731— Died, I6th October, 17?4. 

No sculjitur'd Marble here, nor pompous lay, 
'• No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 

On the other side of the stone is as follows : 

" By special grant of the Managei-s to Robert 
Burns, who erected this stone, this burial place ia 
to remain for ever sacred to the memory of Robert 
Fergusson." 



No. XXI. 

Extract of a Letter from . 

ith March, 1787. 
I am truly happy to know that you have found a 
friend in •••••; his palrouage of you does 
him great honour. He is tiuly a good man ; by lar 
the best I ever knew, or, perhaps, ever shall know, in 
this world. But I must not speak all 1 think of him, 
lest 1 should be thought partial. 

So you have obtained liberty from the magistrates lo 
erect a stone over Fergusson s grav* f 1 do not doubt 
such things have been, as Shakspeare 8ayi,"iii 
the olden time ;" 

" The poet's fate is here in emblem shown. 
He ask'd for bread, and he receiv'd a utonc." 



• Copied from the Bee, vol. ii. p. 319, and compared I ft is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb that tli: 
with «iv. Author's MSS. 1 written. But how many brothers of rerua»»uB, as ' 



LETTERS. 



6d 



u poor fi'itler. and-pnor Furgiisson, have asked fof 
bretiU, and been served llie same sauce ! 

Tr.e ma^isUates grrve you liberty, did they? O 
pi-riiroii8 inagistrales ! ««•..•• cele- 
; r.iiKil over the three kingdoms for his public spirit, 
givrs A poor poet liberty to raise a tomb to a poor poei's 
iiiiFiiory ! most gracious i • « » • once U|jon a 
tniitfgave tliat same poet the mighty sum of eighteen 
iieiice for a copy of his works. But ihen it must be 
considered that the poet was at that time absolutely 
g'arving, and besought his aid with all the earnestness 
i-f hunger; and over and above, he received a * * * * 
worth, at least one third of the value, in exchange, but 
which. I believe, the poet afterwards very ungratefully 
expunged. 

Next week I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you 
II Edinburgh ; and as my stay will be for eight to ten 
fl.tys. I wish you or ' ' ' ' would lake a snug well- 
aired bpd-room for me, where I may have the plea 
sure of seeing you over a morning cup of tea. But, by 
all accounts, it will be a matter of some difficulty to 
see yon at ail, unless your company is besi)oke a week 
beforehand. There is a rumour here concerning 

yom- gn at intimacy with the Dutchess of , and 

other ladies of distinction. I am really told that 
'• caids to invite fly by thousands each night :" and, 
if you had one, 1 suppose there would also be " bribes 
to your old secretary." It seems you are resolved lo 
make hay while the sun shines, and avoid, if possible, 
thi: fate of poor Fergusson, * • • • * Q,cerendn p-- 
cuiia prinium est, virtus post rtummos, is a good 
maxim to thrive by ; you seemed to despise it while in 
Ihis country ; but |;ri)bably some philosopher iu Ediu- 
surgh has taught you better sense. 

Praj , are you yet engraving as well as printing ! — 
Are you yet seized 

" With itch of picture in the front, 
With bays and wicked rhyme upon't ?" 

But I must give up this trifling, and attend to 
matters that more concern myself; so, as the Aber- 
deen wit lays, adieu dryly, we sal drink phan we 
meet.' 



XXII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. 
MADAM, 

I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, very 
little while ago, / had scarce a Jriend but the stub- 
burn pride of my own bosom ; now 1 am di.'tinguishcd, 
pa trordzed, befriended by you. Vonr friendly advices, 
I will not give them the cold name of criticisms, I re- 
ceive wiih reverence. I have iriade some small altera- 
tions in what I before had priiueil. 1 have the advice 
of some very judicious friends among ihe lit.'^rali here, 
but with them I sometimes find it nece.-ssary lo claim 
the privilege of thinking for myself, The noble Karl 
of (jleiicairn, to whom 1 owe mors than to any man, 

* The above extract is from a letter of one of the 
ablest of our I'oet'a correspondents, which contains 
some interesting anecdotes of Fergusson, that we 
ihonid have been happy to have inserted, if they could 
have been authenticated. The writer is mistaken in 
supposing the magistrates of Edinburgh had any share 
in the transaction respecting the monument erected 
for Fergusson by our bard ; this, it is evident, passed 
between Burns and the Kirk-Session of tbeCanongate. 
Neither at F.dinburgh nor any where else, do magis- 
trates usually trouble themselves to inquire how the 
house of a poor poet is furnished, or how his grave is 
udoinrd. K. 



does me the honour of giving me his stricture* ; hia 
hints, with respect to impropriety »r indelicacy, i fol- 
low implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future viewg 
and prospects ; there I can give you no light :— it ii 

all 

" Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roU'd together, or had try'd his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far the high- 
est pride ; to conlinue lo deserve it, is my most exalt- 
ed ambition. Scottish scenes and Scottish story are 
the themes [ could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim 
than to have it in my power, nnplagued with the rou- 
tine of business, for, which, heaven knows I I am unfit 
enough, lo make leisurely pilgrimages through t'altdo- 
nia ; to sit on the field of her battles ; lo wander on the 
romantic banks of her riveis; and lo muse by the 
stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured 
abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have dallied 
long enough with life; 'tis lime to be in earnest. 1 
have a fond, an aged mother to care for; and soni« 
other bosom ties perhaps equally tender. 

Where the individual, only sufiers by the conse- 
quences of his owt, thoughtlessness, indolence, or lolly, 
he may be excusable ; nay, shining abililies, and some 
of the nobier virtues may half-sanctily a h^'edl^^s 
character: but where God and nature have intrusted 
the welfare of others to his care, where the trust is 
sacred, and Ihe ties are dear, that man must be far 
gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to reflection, 
whom these connexions will not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear be'wec" two and three hun- 
dred pounds by my au'-horship : with that sum I in- 
tend, so far as I may be said lo have any inlenlion, to 
return lo my old acquainlance, the plough ; and if I 
can meet with a lease by which I can live, lo com- 
mence farmer. 1 do not intend lo give up poetry ; be- 
ing bred lo labour secures nie independence and the 
muses are my chief, sometimes have been my oni ' 
empluymenl. If my practice second my resolution, . 
shall have principally at heart the serious imsiness of 
life; but, while following my ploogh, or budding up 
my shocks, 1 shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, 
that only feature of my character, which gave me the 
notice of my country, and the paironage of a Wal- 



Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you the bard, 
his situation, and his views, native as they are in his 
own buso.n. 



XXIII. 

TO. THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, 15th April, 1787. 
MADAM, 

There is an affectation of gratitude which 1 dislik* 
The periods of Johnson and the pauses of Sierne, may 
hide a selfi,sh heart. For my part. Madam, I trust I 
have too much piide for servility, and too Uitle pru- 
dence for selfishness. 1 have this moment broken opeu 
jour letter, but 

•' Rude am 1 in speech ' 
And therefore little can I grace my cauje 
In speaking for myself" — 

80 I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches ana 
hunted figures. 1 shall just lay my hai.:l on inv heart, 
and say, 1 hope I shall ever have tiie truest, the waru. 
«st, sense of your goodness. 



LETTERS. 



I come abroad in print for certain on Wednesday 
your orders i' shall punctually allend lo ; only, by the 
way, 1 luusi tell you that I was paid before for Dr. 
Moore'* .nd Miss W.'s copies, through the medium of 
Commissioner Cochrane in this place ; but that we can 
settle when I have the honour of waiting ou you. 

Dr Sroith* was just gone to London the morning 
before 1 received your letter to him. 



No. XXIV. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. 
I received the books, and sent ihe one you mentioned 
to Mrs. Dunlop. 1 am ill-skilled in heating the coverts 
of nnagination for metaphors of gratitude. 1 thank 
you, idir, for the honour you have done me ; and to 
my latest hour will warmly remember it. To be high- 
ly pleased with your book, is what 1 have in common 
with the world ; but lo regard these volumes as a mark 
of the author's friendly esteem, is a still more supreme 
gratitication. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a 
fortnight ; and, alVer a few pilgrimages over some of 
ihe classic ground of Caledonia, Cowden Knowes, 
Binks of Yarrow, Tweed, kc. 1 shall return to my 
rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quit them. 
I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, 
hut I am afraid they are all of too tender a construc- 
tion to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To 
the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, 1 have 
no equivalent lo offer ; aiuf I am afraid my meteor ap- 
pearance will by no means entitle me lo a sealed cor 
respondence with any of you, who are the permanent 
lights of genius and literature. 

Mv most respectful compliments to Miss W. If 
once this tangent flight of mine were over, and I were 
fetuined to my wonted leisurely motion in my old cir- 
cle. 1 may probably endeavour to return her poetic 
compliment in kind. 



No. XXV. 

EXTRACT OP A LETTER TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, ^Hth April, 1787. 
— Your cnticisms, Madam, 1 understand very 
well, and could have wished to have pleased you bet- 
ter. You are right in your guess ihat I am not very 
amenable to counsel. Hoets, much my superiors, have 
so flattered those who possessed the advent-lious qual- 
ities of wealth and power, that ' am determined to flat- 
ter no created being either iu piose or verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, &c. 
as all these respective gentry do by my hardship. 1 
know what 1 may expect from the world by and by — 
illiberal abuse, and perhaps contemptuous neglect; 

I am happy. Madam, that some ofmy ovn favourite 
pieces are distinguished by your particular approba- 
tion. For my Dieam, which has unfortunately incur- 
red your loyal displeasure, 1 hope in four weeks, or 
less, lo have the honour of appearing at Dunlop, in its 
defence, in peison. 



No. XXVT. 

TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 
Laten-Marlcet, Edinburgh, 3d May, 1787. 
REVEREND AND MUCH-RESPECTKD SIR, 

I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, bui conUl not 
go without troubling you with half a liiie sincerely lo 



thank you for the kindness, p:itronage, and friendsbi<t 
you have shown me. I often felt the emoarrassment 
of my singi'lar situation ; drawn forth from the veriest 
shades of life to the glare of remark; and honoured by 
the notice of those illustrious names of my country, 
whose works, while they are applauded to the end of 
time, will ever instruct and mend the heart. However 
the meteor-like novelty of my appearance in the world 
mighl attract notice, and honour me with the ac- 
quaintance of the permanent lights of genius and liter- 
ature, those who are truly benefactors of the immortal ^ 
nature of man ; 1 knew very well that my utmost 
merit was far unequal to the task of preserving that 
character when once the novelly was over. I have 
made up my mind, that abjse, or almost even neglect, 
will not surprise me in my quarters. 

! have sent you a proof impression of Beugo's work 
for me, done on India paper, as a trifling but sincere 
testimony with what heart-warm gratitude I am, &c. 



No. XXVII 

FROM DR. BLAIR. 

Argyle-Sguare, Edinburgh, 4th May, 
DEAR SIR, 

I was favoured this forenoon with your very obliging 
letter, together with an impression of your portrait, 
for which 1 return you my best thanks. The succesi 
you have met with I do not think was beyond youi 
merits ; and if 1 have had any small hand in con 
tributing to it, it gives me great pleasure. I know n» 
way in which literary persons, who are advanced in 
years, can do more service to the world, than in for 
warding the efforts of rising genius, or bringing forth 
unknown merit from obscurity, I was the first peison 
who brought out to the notice of the world, the poems 
of Ossian : first, by ihe Fragments of Ancient Poetry 
which 1 published, and afterwards by my setting on 
foot the undertaking for collecting and publishing the 
Works of Ossi'iii ; and ! have alwaya considered 
this as a meritorious action of my life. 

Your situation, as you say, was indeed very singu- 
lar ; and, in being brought out all at once from the 
shades of deepest privacy, to so great a share of public 
notice and observation, you had lo stand a severe trial. 
I am happy that you have stood it so well ; and, as 
far as 1 have known or heard, though in the midst of 
many temptations, without reproach lo your character 
and behaviour. 

You are now, I presume, to retire to a more priwata 
walk of life ; and, 1 trust, will conduct yourself there, 
with industry, prudence, and honour. You have 
laid the foundation for just public esteem. In the 
midst of those employments, which your situation will 
render proper, you will noi, I hope neglect to promiiie 
that esleem, by cultivating your genius, and attend- 
ing to such productions of it as may raise your chai- 
acter still higher. At the same time, be not in too 
great a haste to ciune forward. Take time and leisure 
to improve and mature your talents ; for on any sec- 
ond production you give the world, your fate, as a poet, 
will very much depend. There is, no doubt, a glosa 
of novelly which time wears off. As you very proper- 
ly hint yourself, you are iioi to be surprised, if, in 
your rural retreat, ynii do not find yourself surrounded 
with that glare of notice and applause which here 
shone upon you. No man can be a good poet, without 
being somewhat of a philosopher. He must lay his 
account, that any one, who exposes himself to public 
obKerviition, will occasionally meet with the attacks 
of illiberal censure, which it is always best to overlook 
and despise. He will be inclined sometimes to court 
retreat, and to disappear from public view. He will 
not affect to shine alwHvs, that he may at propersea- 
soiis come forth with more advantage and energy. He 
will not think himsrlf neglected, if he be not always 
praised. I have taken the liberty, you see, of an old 
man. lo give advice and make reflections which your 
own good sense will, I dare say, render unnecessary 



LETTERS. 



7» 



A« you raenlion your being just about to leave town, 
Tou are goiag, 1 sl-jiild siipjjuse, to DutnlVies-sliire, to 
look at some of Mr. Miller's farms. I lietiriily wish 
y>e otters to be made you it-!re may answer, as ! am 
persuaded you will not easily find a more generous and 
beiierhearted proprietor ty"live under, than Mr. Mil- 
ler. When you return, it you cotne this way, I will 
be happy to see you, and to know concerning your fu- 
ture plans of life. You will find me by the -/id of this 
month, not in my house in Argyle square, but at a 
country-house at Kestalrig, about a mile east t'rom Ed- 
inburgh, near the Musselburgh road. Wishing you all 
Buccesg and prosperity, 1 am, with real regard and es- 
teem, 

Dear ^ir, 

Yours sincerely, 

HUGH BLAIR. 



No. XXVIII. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford-Street, May, 23, 1787. 
DEAR SIR, 

I had the pleasurs of your letter by Mr. Creech, and 
■oon after he sent me the new edition of your poems. 
You seem to think it incumbent on you to send to 
each subscriber a number of copies proportionate to 
his subicripiion-money ; but you may depend upon it, 
few subscribers expect more than one copy, whatever 
they subscribed. 1 must inform you, however, that I 
took twelve copies for those subscribers for whose mo- 
ney you were so accurate as to send me a receipt ; 
and Lord Eglinton told me he had sent for six copies 
for himself, as he wished to give five of them as prea- 



Some nf the poems you have added in this last edi- 
tion are very beautiful, particularly the Winter Night, 
the Address to Edinburgh, Green gi oio the Rashes, 
and the two songs immediately following ; the latter 
of which is exquisite. By the way, I imagine you have 
a peculiar talent for such compositions, which you 
ought to indulge.' No kind of poetry demands more 
delicacy or higher polishing. Horace is more admired 
on account of his Odes than all his other writings. 
But nothing now added is equal to your Vision, and 
Cotter's S'Uurday Night. In these are united fine 
imagery, natural and pathetic description, with sub- 
limity of language and thought. It is evident that you 
already possess a great variety of expression and com- 
mand of the English language, you ought, therefore, 
to deal more sparingly for the future in the provincial 
dialect : why should you, by using that, limit the num- 
ber of your admirers to those who understand the 
Scottish, when you can extend it to all persons of taste 
who understand the English language .'' In my opin- 
ion you should plan some larger wurk thao any you 
have as yet attempted. 1 mean, reflect upon some 
proper subject, and arrange the plan in your mind, 
without beginning to execute any part of it till you 
luve studied most of the best English poets, and read 
a little more of history. The Greek and Roman sto- 
ries you can read in some abridgment, and soon be- 
come mas'er of the most brilliant facts, which must 
highly delight a poetical mind. You should also, and 
Very soon may, become master of the heathen mythol- 
osy, to which there are evei lasting allusions in all the 
poets, and which in itself is charmingly fanciful. What 
will require to be studied with more attention, is mod- 
ern history ; that is, the history of Prance and Great 
Britain, from the beginning »f Henry the Seventh's 
reisn. I know very well you have a mind capable of 
attaining knowledge by a shorter process than is com 
monly used, and 1 am certain you are capable of ma- 
king a belter use of it, when attained^ than is generally 
done. 

• The pneiBj subsequently composed will bear testi- 
mouy to the accuracy of Dr. Moore's judgment. 



I beg you will not give yourself the trouble of writing 
to me when it is inconvenient, and make no ipology 
when you do write, for having postponed it ; be assu- 
red of this, however, that T shall always be happy to 

hear from you. 1 think my friend Mr. told ine 

that you had some poems in manuscript by you, ol a 
satirical and humorous nature, ^:n which, by the way, 
1 think you very strong,) which your prudent friends 
prevailed on you to omit ; particularly one called 
Somebo ly's Confession ; iTyou will intrust me with 
a sight of any of these, I will pawn my word to give no 
copies, and will be obliged to you for a perusal uf them. 

r understand you intend to take a farm, and make 
the useful and respectable business of husbandry your 
chief occupation ; this, 1 hope, wiil not prevent your 
making occasional ,<\ddresses to tne nine ladies who 
have snown you sucn favour, one of whom visited you 
in the auldclay iiggin. Virgil, before you, proved to 
the world, that there is notlutig in the business of hus- 
bandry inimical to poetry; and 1 sincerely hope that 
you may afford an example of a good poet being a suc- 
cessful farmer. 1 fear it will not be in my power to 
visit Scotland this season ; when I do, I'll endeavour to 
find you out, for 1 heartily wish to see and converse 
with you. ifever your oi-casions call you to this place, 
1 make no doubt of your paying me a visit, and you 
may depend on a very cordial welcome from this fam- 
ily. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your friend and obedient servant, 

J.MOORE. , 



No. XXIX. 

TO MR. WALKER, 

BLAIR OF ATHOLE. 

Inverness, 5tk September, 1787. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I have just time to write the foregoing,* and to tell 
you that it was (at least most part of it,) the efl'usion 
of a half-hour I spent at Bruar. I do net mean it was 
extempore, for I have endeavoured to brush it up as 

well as Mr. N 's chat, and the jogging of the 

chaise, would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, 
as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his debts 
of honour or gratitude. What I owe to the noble fam- 
ily of Athole, of the first kind, I shall ever proudly 
boast ; what I owe of the last, so help me God in my 
hour of need ! I shall never forget. 

The " little angel band !" I declare I prayed for 
them very sincerely to day at the Fall of Fyers I 
shall never forget the fine fa'mily-piece 1 saw at Bhiir ; 
the amiable, the truly noble Dutchess, with her smi- 
ling little seraph in lier lap, at the head of the table ; 
the lovely "olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely 
says, round the happy mother ; the beautiful Mrs. 

G ; the lovely, sweet Miss C., &c. I wish I had 

the powers of Guido to do them justice. My Lord 
Duke's kind hospitality — markedly kind indeed ! Mr. 

G. of F — 'b charms of conversation — Sir W. M 'a 

friendship. In short, the recollection of all that po- 
lite, agreeable company, raises an honest glow in my 
bosom. 



No. XXX. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, V7th Sept. 1787 
MY DEAR BROTHER, 

I arrived ht-re safe yesterday evening, after a toui of 
twenty-two days, and travelling near six hundred 

* The humble Petition of Bruar Water to the Date 
of Athole. See Poems, j>. 73. 



LETTERS. 



rr<U«tf ■ windings included. My farthest stretch was 
about '.en miles beyond Inverness. 1 went through 
the heurl of the Highlands, by Criefl", Taymuuth, the 
famous scat ol \.i>e Lord Bveadalbane, down 1\)k Tay, 
ainor.g cascades and Druidical circles of siones, to 
Duniteid, a seat ofihe Dulte of Athole : thence crose 
'I'.iy, and up one of l.ns tributary streams to Blair of 
Ailiole, another of the Duke's seats, where I had the 
liunour of spending nearly two days with his Grace 
and family ; thence many miles through a wild coun- 
try, amoiig cliffs gray with eternal snows, and gloomy 
suvage glens, till I crossed Spey and went down the 
stream through Strathspey, so famous in ."Scottish mu- 
sic, Badenoch, &c. till I reached Grant Castle, where 
1 spent half a day with Sir James Grant and family ; 
anil then crossed the country for Fort George, but 
called by the way at Caivdor, the ancient seat of Mac- 
'jetli ; there I saw th". identical bed in which, tradition 
says. King Duncan was murdered ; lastly, from Fort 
Ueorge to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, Forres, and 
«o on, to Aberdeen ; thence to Stonehive, where James 
Burness, from Montrose, met me, by appointment. I 
spent two days among our relations, and found our 
aunts, Jean and Isabel, still aiive, and hale old women. 
John Caird, though born the same year with our fa- 
ttier, walks as vigorously as I can ; ihey have had sev- 
eral letters from his son in New. York. William 
Brand is likewise a stout old fellow ; but further par- 
ticulars 1 delay till I see you, wliich will be in two or 
tliree weeks. The rest of my stages are not worth re- 
hearsing ; warm as I was from Ossian's country, 
wliere I had seen nis very grave, what tared I for fish- 
ins towns or l"ertil» carses ? I slept at the famous Bro- 
riie of Brodie's one nieht, and dined at Gordon Castle 
next day with the Duke, Dutchess, and family. I am 
thinking to cause my oid raare to meet me, by means of 
John Ronald, at Glasgow . but you sliall hear farther 
from me before I leave Edinliurgh. My duty, and 
many compliments, from the north, to my mother, and 
my Inotlierly compliments to the rest. I have been try- 
ing loi a birth for W'jlham, but am not likely to be4 
luccessful. Farewell ! 



No. XXXI. 



FROM MR. R • 

Ochtertyre, Z2d October, 1787. 
SIR, 

' r«-as only yesterday I got Colonel Edmondstoune's 
answer, tliai neither the words of Djwn the Burn Da- 
vi , nor D .i'lti- Davie, (I forgot which you mention- 
ed/ Were written by Colonel G. Crawford. Next time 
1 m<-et him, 1 will inquire about bis cousins poetical 
talents. 

Enclosed are the inscriptions you requested, and a 
letter to Mr. Young, whose company and musical 
Uleiils will, I am persuaded, be a least to you.* No- 

* These Inscriptions, ao much admired by Burua, 

»re as follows : 

WRITTEN IN 1768. 
for the Salictum' of Ochtertyre, 
Salubritatis voluptatisque causa, 
HocSalictum, 
Paludem olim infidam, 
Mihi meisque desicco et exorno. 
Hic,procul negotiis 8trepitqu«, 

Innoculs deliciis 

BilTulas inter naseentes reptandi, 

Apiumque laboras suspiciendi, 

Fruor. 

Hie, si fazit Deus, opt. max. 

• StUict-i'm—Grove of Willows. WiUow-gronnd. 



body can give yon better hints, as '.j your pr««en( 
plan than he. Receive also Umeron Cameron, wliich 
seemed to make such a deep impression on your iiiia* 
gmation, that I am not without hopes it will beget 
something to delight the public in due time; and, no 
doubt, the circumstances of this liule tale might be 
varied or extended, so as to make part of a pastoral 
comedy. Age or wounds might have kept Omeron at 
home, whilst his countrymen were in the field. I,ii 
station may be somewhat varied, without losing hit 
simplicity and kindness. • • • a group of charac- 
ters, male and female, connected with the plot, miglil 
be formed from his family or some neighbouring one of 
rank. It is not indispensable that the guest should be 
a man of high station ; nor is thei political quarrel in 
which he is engaged, ot much importance, unless ii 
call forth the exercise of generosity and laithlulncss, 
grafted on patriarchal hospitality. To introduce stale- 
affairs, would raise the style above comedv ; though 
a small spice of them would season the converse ot 
swains. Upon this head I cannot say more than to 
recommend the study of the character of Euniau* in 

Prope hunc fontem pellucidum, 
Cum quodam juventutis amico superalite, 
Sffipe conquiescam, senex, 
Conteutiis modicis, mueque leetual 
Sin aliter — 
^vique paululum supersit, 
Vos silvulse, et amici, 
Casteiaque amccna, 
Valete, diuque laetamini I 

ENGLISHED. 
To improve both air auk toil, 
I drain and decorate this plantation of willow* 
Which was lately an unprofitable morata. 
Here, far from noise and strife, 
I love to wander, 
Now fondly marking the prugrets of my Ireet 
Now itudying the bee, its arts and manners. 
Here, if it pleases Almighty God, 
May 1 often rest in the evening of life, 

Near that transparrent fountain, 
With tome surviving friend of my youth ; 

Contented with a competency, 

And happy with my lot. 
If Vain these humble wishes, 
And life draw me near a close, 

Ye trees and friends, 
And whatever else is dear, 
Farewell 1 and long may ye flourith. 



Above the door of the houte. 

WRITTEN IN 1775. 

Mihi meisque uiiiiam cuiiting 

Prope Taichi marginem, 

Avitoin Agello, 

Bene Tiverc fauttequt mori I 

ENGLISHED. 

On the banks of the Teith, 

In the small but sweet iuherilaoco 

Of my father*. 

May I and mine live in peace 

And die iii joyful hope ! 

These inscriptions, and the tranalatiuiia, i 
and wiiling ui Air. Kuiiuuy. 



LETTERS. 



73 



.dt* Ud'uey, wtiir , in Mr. Pope's translaiion, it an 
•xqOMite aiiU up tuable drawing iVom uaiiiie, lliat 
*f>uld suit sumeot'our couiiiry tltlc-rs of ihe pieaeul 
day. 

There must be love in the plot, and.a happy discove- 
ry ; a.'vd peace and pardon may be tlie reward ol'hus- 
[.i(aliL), and hoiiesL aitachmenl to misguided princi- 
pl,-.i. When you have once thought of a plot, and 
brought ibe story into form, Doctor Blacklocif, or Mr. 
1). Macltei'zie, may be useful in dividing it into acts 
and scenes ; for in these matters one must pay some 
attention tc certain rules of the drama. These you 
c.iidd afterwards fill up at your leisure. But, whilst 
I jiresume '.>' give a few well-meant hin'.s, let me ad- 
v,.,e yini to study the spirt of my namesake's dialogue,* 
which is natural without being low ; and, under the 
Iracnmels of verse, is such as countiy-peuple, in these 
bctuiiiions, speak every day. You have only to bring 
(luwn your strain a very little. A great plan, huch as 
this, would concentre all your ideas, which facilitates 
the e:tecutiou, and makes it a part of one's pleasure. 

1 approve of your plan of retiring from din and dissi- 
pation to a farm of very moderate size, suffioiKiit to find 
exercise for mind and body, but not so great as to ab- 
sorb better things. And if some intellectual pursuit 
be well chosen and steadily pursued, it will be more 
lucrative than most, farms, iu this age of rapid improve- 
ment. 

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and admirer, 
perinii me to go a step further. Let those bright tal- 
euis which the Almighty has bestowed on yon, be 
henceforth employed to the noble purpose of support- 
ing the cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so 
varied and forcible as yours, may do this in many dif- 
ferent modes ; nor is it necessary to be always serious, 
which you have to good purpose ; good morals may be 
recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great 
allowances are due to the heat and inexperience of 
youth;— and few poets can boast like Thomson, of 
never having written a line, which, dying, they would 
wish to blot. In particular 1 wish to keep clear of the 
thorny walks of satire, which makes a man a huixlred 
enemies for one friend, and is doubly dangerous when 
one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of 
inilividuals to their sect or party. About modes of 
faiuh, serious and excellent men have always dift'ered ; 
and there are certain curious questions, which may af- 
ford scope to men of metaphysical heads, but seldom 
mend the heart or temper. Whilst these points are 
beyond human ken, it is sufficient that all our sects 
concur in their views of morals. You will forgive me 
for these hints. 

Well ! what think yon of good lady Clackmslnnau .'t 
It is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so indistinctly. 
Her house is a specimen of the mansions of oiirgentiy 
of the last age, when hospitality and elevation of mind 
were conspicuous amid plain fare and plain furni- 
ture. I shall be glad to hear from you at times, if it 
Were no more than to show that you take the etfusions 
of an obscure man like me in gooil part. 1 beg my best 
respects to Dr. and Mrs. Blackiock.J 
And am, Sir, 

Your most obedient, humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 

• Allan Ramsay, in the Gentle Shepherd. E. 

t Mrs. Bruce of Clackmanniin. E. 

X TALE OF OMERON CAMERON. 

'n one of the wars betwixt the crown of Scotland 
and t.ie Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stewart, Earl 
of Mar (a distinguished character in the fifteenth cen- 
tin-y,) and Donald Stewart, Earl of Caithness, had 
the command of the royal army. They marched into 
Lochaher, with a view of attacking a body of the M'- 
DonHids, cominanded by Donald Balloch, nnd posted 
apon au arm of the sea which intersects luat country 



No. XXXII. 

FROM MR. J. RAMSAY, TO THE 

REVEREND W. YOUNG, AT ERSKINE. 

Ochterture, 2id October, 1787. 
DEAR SIR, 

Allow me to introduce Mr. Burns, whose poems, I 
dare say, have given you much pleasure. Upon a per- 
sonal acquaintance, 1 doubt not, you will relish ihe 
man as much as his works, in which there is a nrh 
vein of intellectual ore. He has heard some ol our 
Highland Jjuinaga or songs played, which delighted 

Having timely intelligence of their approach, the in- 
surgents got off precipitately to the opposite shore in 
their curraghs, or boats covered with skins. The 
King's troops encamped in full security ; but the M'- 
Doiialds, returned about midnight, surprised tneni, 
killed the Earl of Caithness, and distroyed or disper^ 
ed the whole army. 

The Earl of Mar escaped in the dark, without any 
attendants, and maae for the more hilly part of th« 
coiiniry. In the course of his flight he came to tha 
house of a poor man, whose name was Unieron 
Cameron. The landlord welcomed his guest with the 
utmost kindness ; but, as there was no meal in the 
house, he told his wife he would directly kill Moai 
Adah,' to t>ed the stranger. "Kill our only cow!" 
said she, "our own and our little children's principal 
support!" More attentive, however, to the present 
call lor hospitality than the remonstrances of his wife, 
or the future exigencies of his family, he killed tha 
cow. The best and tenderest parts were immediately 
roasted before the fire, and plenty of j/iniricA, or High- 
land soup, prepared .o conclude their meal. Tha 
whole family, and tneir guest ate heartily, and the 
eveuing was spent, as usual, in telling tales and sing, 
ing songs besides a cheerful fire. Bed-time came • 
Omeron brushed the hearth, spread the cow-hide ujjor 
it, and desired the stranger to lie down. The earl 
wrapped his plaid about him, and slept soundly on th< 
hide, whilst the family betook themselves to rest in i! 
cornerof the same room. 

Next morning they had a plentiful breakfast, and a: 
his departure his guest asked Cameron, if he knew 
whom he had entertained? "You may probably," 
answered he, " be one of the king's officers; but whc. 
ever you are, you came here in distress, and here it 
was my duty to protect you. To what my cottage af. 
forded you was most welcome. " Your guest, then," 
replied the other, " is the Earl of Mar ; and if hereal- 
ter you fall into any misfortune, fail not to come to the 
castle of Kildrummie." " My blessing be with you I 
noble stranger," said Omeron ; " If I am ever in dit- 
tress you shall soon see me." 

The Royal army was soon after re-assembled, and 
the insurgents finding themselves unable to make head 
against it, dispersed. The M'Donalds, however, go< 
notice that Omeron had been the Esirl's host, and for 
ced him to fly the country. He came with his wile ur<i 
children to the gale of Kildrummie castle, and requii-i^j 
admittance with a confiaence which hard.y correspond 

* Maol Odhar t. e. the orowu hcifuiul se«r 



74 



LETTERS. 



him 80 much that hehas made words to one or two of 
them, which will render these more popular. As he 
lis thought of being iii your quarter, I am persuaded 
you will r.ot think it labour lost to indulge the poet of 
nature with a Barnpie of those sweet, artles* melodies, 
which i/nly waat to be mrLrried (in Milton's phrase) 
"'• '^isfeiiiftl ■j'ords. I wish we could conjure up the 
gnosl of Josej^h M'D. to infuse into our bard a portion 
of his enthusiHstn for those neglected airs, which do not 
suit the fastidioiis musicians of I he present hour. But 
if it be true that Corelli (whom 1 looked on as the Ho- 
mtrr of music) ia out of date, it is no proof of their 
taste ; — this, however, is going out of my province. 
You can show Mr. Burns the manner of singing the 
sa.me Luinags ; and, if he can humour il in words, I 
do not despair of seeing one of them sung upon the 
stage, in the original style, round a napkin. 

r am very sorry we are likely to meet ao seldom in 
this neighbourhood. It is one of the greatest draw- 
backs that attends obscurity, that one has so few op- 
portunities of cultivating acquaintances at a distance. 
1 hope, however, some time or other to iiave the plea- 
sure of beating up your quarters at Krskine, and of 
hauling you away to iaisley, &c. ; meanwhile 1 
beg to be remembered to Messrs. Bougand Mylne. 

If Mr. B. goes by , give him a billet on our 

friend, Mr. Stuart, who, I presume, does not dread the 
frowns of his diocesan. 
J am, Dear Sir, 

Your most obedient, humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 



No. XXXIII. 

FROM MR. RAMSAY 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Ochtertyre, October 27, 1787. 
DEAR SIR, 

I receivgd yours by Mr. Burns, and give you many 
thanks for giving me an opportunity of conversing with 
a man of his calibre. He will, I doubt nut, let you 
know what passed between us on the subject of my 
hints, to which 1 have made additions io a letter I sent 
t 'other divy to your care. 



You may tell Mr. Burns, when you see him, that 
Colonel Edmondstoune told me t'other day, that his 
cousin. Colonel George Crawford, was no poet, but a 
great singer of songs ; but that his eldest brother Ro- 
bert (by a former marriage) had a great turn that way, 
having written the words of The Bushahoou Traquair 
a. id Tweedside. That the Mary to whom it was ad- 
dressed was Mary Stewart, of the Casllemilk family, 
a terwards wife of Mr. John Relches. The Colonel 
never saw Robert Crawford, though he was at bis bu- 
lial fifty-five years ago. Ue was a pretty young man, 

ed with his hatil and appearance. The porter told 
him rudely, bis lordship was at dinner, and must not 
oe disturbed. He became noisy and imoortnne : at 
last his name was announced. Upon hearing thai it 
was Omeron Cameron, the Earl started from his seal, 
and is said to have exclaimed in a kind of poetic stan- 
la, " I was a night in his house, and fared most plen- 
tifully ; but naked of clothes was my bed. Omeron 
from Breugach is an excellent fellow." He was in- 
troduced into the great hall, and received with the 
welcome he deserved. Upon bearing how he l-ad been 
treated, the Earl gave nim four merk land near the 
castle : and itia said tliere is still a number of Came- 
or>i descended of this Highland Euinsus. 



and had lived long in Tranot Lady Ankerrillt ia hl« 
neice, and may Know nmrc of his poetical vein. An 
epitaph-monger like nie might moralize upon the 'vaui 
ty of life, and thu vanity nf those sweet efiiisions. Bui 
1 have hardly room to offer my best curoplimenls to 
Mr«.Blacklock,audam, 
Dear Doctor, 

Your most obedient, humble ser/ant, 

J. RAMSAY. 



No. XXXIV 



FROM MR. JOHN MURDOCH. 

London, 28«A October, 1797. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

As my friend, Mr. Brown, is going from this |>li»et 
to your neighbourliond, I embrace tlis o|i|ioriimity of 
telling you that I am yet alive, tolerably well, and al 
wa\8 in expectation of being better. By the iruteh- 
valuad letters before me. I see that it was mvduly To 
have given you this inleHiaence about three yeiirs and 
nine months ago : and have nothiiis loallese as an ex- 
cuse but that we (loor, luisy. htislliiig bodies in l.oi>- 
doii, are so much taken up with the yaiimis piirsnils in 
which we are here engaged, that we seldom think ol 
any i)erson, creature, place, ar thing that is «bs(*iil. 
But this is not altoeeiher the ca<e with me ; for i often 
think of you, and Homi- and Riissel, snd an unf- h- 
omed depth, and loinan brutmtnne, all in the sam» 
minute, although you and they are (as I suppose) at a 
considerable distancu. I flutter myself, howe»er,with 
the pleasing thought, that you and I shall meet soma 
time or other either in Scotland or England. If ever 
you come hither, you will have the satisfaction of see- 
ing your poems* relished by the Caleiloniana in Lon- 
don, full as much as they can be hy those of Edin- 
burgh. We frequently repeat some of your verses in 
our (;aledoiiian snci' ty ; and you may believe, that 1 
am not a little vain that I have had some share in ci>l- 
tivalingsnch a genius. 1 was not afwolute'y certain 
that you were the author, till a few days ago, when I 
made a visit to Mrs. Mill, Dr. M'Comb's eldest daugh- 
ter, who Uvea in town, and who told me iha: she wa« 
informed of it by a letter from her sister in Kdinburgh, 
with whom you bad been in company when in that 
capital. 

Pray let me know if you have any intention of visit 
ing this huge, overerown metropolis .' It would nfTord 
matter for a Inige poem. Here you would have an o|> 
portunity of indulging your vein in the study of m«i>- 
kind, perhaps lo a greaif rdegree than in any city upon 
the face of the globe ; for the inhabitants of London, ai 
you know, are a collection of all nations, kindreds, 
and tongues, who make il, as il were, th« centre of 
their commerce. 



Present my respectful compliments to Mri. Bnrna, 
lo my deal f'rienH Gilbert, and all the rest of her amia- 
ble children. May the Father of the universe hlfsj 
you all with those principles and dispositions that the 
beat of parents took such uncommon pains to instil 
into vour minds from your earliest infancy 1 May 
you live ashednl ! if you do, you can never be unhap- 
py. I feel mvself grow serious all at once, and affect- 
ed in a rnaniier I cannot describe. I shall only add, 
that it isoneof theereatest pleasures 1 promise myself 
before 1 die, that of seeing the family of a man whoss 
memory I revere more than that of any p«r8on that 
ever 1 was acquaimed with. 
I am, my dear Friend, 

Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MURDOCH. 



LETTERS. 



75 



No. XXXV. 



FROM MR. 

Gordon Castle, ZVst. Oct. n87. 
SIR, 

If 70U were not sensible of your fault as well as of 
four .081 ill leaving this place su suddenly, I should 
Cuii'iiiJiiu you to starve upon caald kail for ae towmonC 
Rt .eau 1 and as for Dick Laline,' your travelling 
companion, without banning him wV a' the curses 
coucaiueu in your letter (which lie'U no value a baw- 
bee.) 1 should give him naught but Stra'bogie cas- 
tocks to chew lor snj: ouks, or ay until he wr.s as sensi- 
ble of his error as you seem to be of yours. 



Tour song I showed without producing the author ; 
and it was judged by the Dutchess to be the production 
of Dr. Beauie. 1 sent a copy of it, by her Grace's de 
sire, toa Mrs. M'Pherson lu Badenoch, who sings Mo- 
rag and all other Gaelic songs in great perfection. I 
have recorded it likewise, by Lady Charlotte's desire, 
in a book belonging to her ladyship, where it is in 
company with a great many other poems and verses, 
some of the writers of which are no less eminent for 
their political than for their poetical abilities. When 
the Dutchess was informed that you were the author, 
she wished you had written the verses in Scotch. 

Any letter directed to me here will come to hand 
safely, and, if sent under the Duke's cover, it will 
likewise come free ; that is, as long as the Duke is in 
this country. 

I am, Sir, yours sincerely. 



No. XXXVI. 

PROM THE REVEREND JOHN SKINNER. 

Linaheart, HiA November, 1787. 
SIR, 

Your kind rsturn, without date, but of post mark 
October25th, came to my hand only this day ; and, to 
testify my punctuality to my poetic engagement, 1 sit 
down immeJiately to answer it in kiiid^ Your ac- 
knowledgment of my poor but just encomiums on your 
surprising genius, and your opinion of my rhyming 
excursions, are both, I think, by far too high. The 
tliflerence between our two tracks of education and 
ways of life is entirely in your favour, and gives you 
the preference every manner of way. 1 know a classi- 
cal educaiion will not create a versifying taste, but it 
mightily improves and assists it ; and though, where 
both these meet, there may sometimes be ground for 
approbation, yet where taste appears single as it were, 
ami neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, 1 
will always sustain the justice of its prior claim of ap- 
plause. A small portion of tasle, this way, I have 
had almost from childhood, especially in the old Scot- 
tish dialect ; and it is as old a thing as I remember, 
my fondness for C/irist-kirk o' the Green, which I had 
by heart, ere I was twelve years of age, and which, 
some years ago, I attempted to turn into Latin verse. 
While I was young I dabbled a good deal in these 
things ; but, on getting the black gown, 1 gave it pret- 
ty much over, till my daughters grew up, who, being 
all good singers, plagued me for words to some of their 
favourite tunes, and so extorted these effusions, which 
have made a public appearance beyond my expecta- 
tions, and contrary to my intentions, at the same time 
that I hope there is nothing to be found in them un- 
characteristic, or unbecoming the cloth which 1 would 
always wish to see respected. 

.\a to the assistance you purpose from me in the un- 
dertaking you are engaged in,t I am sorry I cannot 

• Mr. Nicol. 
1 A plan of publishing a complete collection of Scot- 
ttib Sougs, &c. 



give it so far as I could wish, and you perhaps eipect 
My daughters, who were my only intelligencers, are 
&][ foris-f,}miliate, and the old woman their mother 
has lost that tasie. There are two from my own pen, 
which I might give you, if worth the while. One to 
the old Scotch tune of Dumbarton's Drums. 

The othir perhaps you have met with, as your noble 
friend the Dutchess has, 1 am told, heard o( it. It 
was squeeied out of me by a brother parson in her 
neighbourhood, toaccommodate a new Highland reel for 
the Marquis's birth day, to the stanza of 

" Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly," &c. 

If this last answer your purpose, you may have it 
from a brother of mine, Mr. James Skinner, writer in 
Edinburgh, who, I believe, can give the music too. 

There is another humorous thing 1 have heard, said 
to be done by the Catholic priest Geddes, and which 
hit my taste much : 

" There was a wee wifeikie, was coming frae the fair. 
Had gotten a little drapikie which bred her meikle care, 
It took upo' the wifie's heart, and she began to spew. 
And Co' the wee wifeikie, 1 wish 1 binna lou, 

I wish, Sfc. tfc. 

I have heard of another new composition , by a young 
ploughman of my acquaintance, that 1 am vastly 
pleased with, to the tune of The Humours 0/ Gltn, 
which 1 fear won't do, as the music, 1 am told, is of 
Irish original. 1 have mentioned these, such as they 
are, to show my readiness to oblige you, and to con- 
tribute my mite, if I could, to the patriotic work you 
have in hand, and which I wish all success to. You 
have only to notify your mind, and what you want ol 
the above shall be sent you. 

Mean time, while you are thus publicly, I may say, 
employed, do net sheath your own proper and piercing 
weapon. From what I have seen of yours already, I 
am inclined to hope for much good. One lesson of vir- 
tue and morality delivered in your amusing style, and 
from such as you, will operate more than dozens would 
do from such as me, who shall be told it is our employ- 
ment, and be never more minded : whereas, from a 
pen like yours, as being one of the many, what comes 
will be admired. Admiration will produce regard, and 
regard will leave an impression, especially when ex- 
ample goes along. 

Now binna saying I'm ill bred, 
Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad, 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said. 

And sic like fry. 
Maun ay be harland in their trade, 

And sae maun I. 

Wishing you, from my poet-pen, all success, and, ia 
my other character, all happiness and heavenly direc- 
tion, 

I remain, with esteem, 

Your sincere friend, 

JOHN SKINNER, 



No. XXXVII. 

FROM MRS. ROSE. 

Kilravock Castle, dOtk Nov. 1787. 
SIR, 

I hope you will do me the Justice to believe, that >» 
was no defect in gratitude for your punctual perform- 
ance of your parting promise, that has nriade me so 
long in acknowledging it, but merely the difticiilty I had 
in getting the Highland songs yon wialied to have, ac- 
curately noted ; they are at last enclosed ; but hoW 
shall I convey aJiMig with them those spaces they a«« 



7C 



LETTERS. 



quired from the melodiojs voice of one of the fair epir- 
lis of ihe nili ofKildrummie ! These I must leave to 
VL'ur imagination to supfiiy. It lias powers sufficient 
lo transport you to her side, to recall lier accents, and 
to inalfe tlieni siiil vibrate in llie ears of memory. 
To her 1 am inflel)ted (•»■ getting tlie enclosed notes. 
They are clothed with ''thoughts tliat breathe, and 
a-i/riii tliat burn." These, however, being in an uh- 
k lown tongue to you, you m'lsl again have recourse to 
dial same fertile imagination ol yours to interpret 
lliem, and suppose a lover's description of the beauties 
of an adored mistress — Why did I say unknown ? the 
Utiiguage of love is a universal one, that seems to have 
KJicaped the couftisioa of Babel, and lo be understood 
by all natioui, 

r rejoice to find that you were pleased with so many 
things, persons, and places, in your northern lour, 
because it leads me to hope you may be induced to re- 
visit them again. That the old castle of Kilravock, 
and its inhabitants, were amongst these, adds to my 
satisfaction. 1 am even vain enough to admit your 
very flattering application of the line of Addison's ; at 
any rate, allow me to believe, that " friendship will 
niuintaiii the ground she has occupied in both our 
hearts,'' in spite of absence, and that when we do 
meet, it will be as acquaintance of a score years' 
standing : and on this footing conoider me as interest- 
ed ill llie future course of your fame so splendidly 
commenced. ,-lny communications of the progress of 
your muse will be received with great gratitude, and 
the file of yoii" genius will have power lo warm even 
us, frozen sisters of the north. 



Thrt fire sides of Kilravock and Kildrummie unite in 
cordial regards to you. When you incline to figure 
either in your idea, suppose some of us reading your 
poems, iiiid some of us singing your songs, and my lit- 
tle Hugh looking at your picture, and you'll seldom be 
wrong. We remember Mr. Nicol with as much good 
will as we can do any body who harried Mr. Burns 
from us. 

Farewell, Sir : I can only contribute the widow's 
mite,\.o the esteem and admiration excited by your 
merits and genius ; but this 1 give, as she did, with all 
my heart — being sincerely yours. 

EL. ROSE. 



No. XXXVIII. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

MV LORD, 

I know your Lordship will disapprove of my ideas 
ill a request I am going to make to you, but I have 
weighed, long and seriously weighed, my situation, my 
hopes, and turn of mind, and am fully fixed lo my 
scheme, if I can possibly effectuate it. I wish to get 
into the Excise ; 1 am told that your Lordship's in- 
terest will easily procure me the grant from the Com- 
missioner's ; and your Lordship's patronage and good- 
ness, which have already rescued me iron' obscurity, 
wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask that iu- 
terest. You have likewise put it in my power to save 
th'i IHtle tie of home that sheltered an aged mother, 
two brothers, and three sisters, from destruction — 
There, my Lord, you have bound rae over to the high- 
est gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease ; but I 
think be will probably weather out the remaining seven 
years of it; and, after the assistance which I have giv- 
en, and will give him, to keep the family together, I 
think, by my guess, I shall have rather better than two 
hundred pounds, and instead o! seeking what is almost 
impossible at present lo find, a farm that I can cer- 
tainly live by, with so small a stock, 1 shall lodge this 
sum in a banking ho'ise, a sacred deposit, excepting 
only the calls ef uncommon distress or necessitous old 



These, My Lord, are my viewi ; ' have resolved 
from the maturest deliberation ; ani now 1 am fixed, 
I shall leave no stone unturned to carry my rtsoive 
into execution. Your Lordship's patronage is ihe 
stretigtii of my hopes; nor have I yet applied to iny 
body else. Indeed my heart sinks within me at the 
idea of applying to ar.y other of the Great who have 
honoured me with their coiinteiiance. I am ill with tiie 
impertinence of solicitation, and tremble nearly at 
much at the thought of the cold promise, as the cold 
denial : but to your Lordship I have not only the hon- 
our, the comfort, but the pleasure of being 
Your Lordship's much obliged, 

And deeply indebted humble servant. 



No. XXXIX. 



TO DALRYMPLE, ESQ,. 

OF ORANGEFIELD. 

Edir.burgk, iT81. 
DEAR SIR, 

1 suppose the devil is so elated with his success with 
you, that he is determined, by a coup de mid i , to com- 
plete his purposes on you all al once, in making you a 
poet. -I broke open your letter you sent me : hummed 
over the rhymes ; and as I saw they were extempore, 
said to myself, they were very well ; but when I saw 
al the bottom a name I shall ever value with grateful 
respect, "I gai)il wide but naelhing spak." I was 
nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of af- 
fliction-bearing memory, when they sat down with 
liiin seven days and seven nights, and spake not a 
word. 



I am naturally of a superstitious casl, and as soon 
as my wonder-scared iinaginaiion regained its con- 
sciousness, and resumed its fiinciiuns, I cast about 
what this mania of yours might portend. My lorebo- 
ding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility ; and 
several events, great in their magnitude, and import- 
ant in their consequences, occurred to my fancy — 
The downfall of the conclave, or the ci usiung ol the 

cork rumps ; a ducal coronet lo Lord George G , 

and the prolesianl interest, or Si. Peter's keys, lo 



You want to know how [ come on, lam just in 
statu quo, or, not lo insult a gentleman with my Latin, 
in " aukl use and wont." The noble Karl of Glen- 
cairn look nie by the hand to-day, and interested him- 
self in my concerns, witli a goodness like that benevo- 
lent Being whose image he so richly bears, lie is a 
stronger proof of the immortality of the soul than any 
that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his can 
never die. Let the worshipi'ul squire H. L. or the rev. 
erend Mass J. M. go into their primitive nothing. At 
best, they are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one 
of them strongly tinged with biluminous particles and 
sulphureous etfluvia. But my noble patron, eternal a* 
the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous 
throb of benevolence, shall look en with princely eye at 
" the war of elements, Itie wreck of mailer, and ilia 
crush of worlds." 



No. XL.. 



rO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

December, 1737. 
SIR, 

Mr. M'Kenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and 
worthy friend, has informed me h.iw much you are 
pleased lo interest yourself in my fate as a man and 
(what to me is incomparaiily dearer^ my fame as • 
poel. 1 have. Sir, in one or two iiisiaiices, been tat 
rouized by Ihosu of your character in life, wbca 1 WM 



LETTERS. 



Intrrdueed to their notice by * • • * • • friends to 
them, and honoured acquaintance to me ; bui you are 
the Arst ^enileman in the country whose benevolence 
and goodness of heart have inleresled hirn lor me, un- 
solicited and unknown. 1 am not master enough of 
tiie etiquette ot these matters to know, nor did 1 slay 
to inquire, whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety 
disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as 1 am 
convinced, from the light in which you kindly view 
me, that you will do ine the justice to believe this let- 
ter is not me manoeuvre of tlie needy, sharping author, 
fastening on those in upper life who honour him with 
a little notice of him or his works. Indeed, the situa- 
tion of poets is generally such, to a [iroverb, as may 
in some measure, palliate that prostitution of art and 
talents thsy have at times been guilty of. I do not 
think prodigality is, by no means, a necessary concom- 
itant of a poetic turn; hut 1 believe a careless, indo- 
lent inattention to economy, is almost inseparable- ■■ im 
it ; then there must be, in the heart of every bav ^ of 
Nature's making, a certain modest sensibility, mixed 
with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out ot the 
way of those windfalls of fortune, which frequently 
light on hardy impudence and footlicking servility, it 
is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than his, 
poetic fancy unrtts him for the world, and whose cha- 
racter as a scholar gives him some pretensions to the 
polUesee of life— yet is as poor as 1 am. » 

For my part, I thank Heaven my star has been kind- 
er ; learning never elevated my ideas above the peas- 
ant's shade, and 1 haveau independent fortune at the 
plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one who pretended 
in the Irasl to ihemanneTS of the gentleman, should be 
BO foolish, or worse, as to stoop to traduce the morals 
of such a one as 1 am ; and so inhumanly cruel, too, 
as to meddle with that late nost unfortunate part of 
my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you. 
Sir, for the warmth with which you interposed in be- 
half of my conduct, t am, 1 acknowledge, too frequen- 
ly the sport of whim, caprice, and passion — but rever- 
ence to God, and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I 
hope 1 shall ever preserve. I have no return, Sir, to 
make you lor your goodness, but one--a return which, 
1 am persuaded will not be unacceptable — the honest, 
warm wishes of a g-ateful heart for your happiness, 
and every one of that lovely flock who stand to yon 
ill a filial relation. If ever Calumny aim the poisoned 
shaft at them, may friendship be by to ward the 
blow 1 



No. XLI 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 1\st January. 1788. 
After six weeks confinement, I am beginning to 
walk across the room. They have been six horrible 
weekf, angcish and low spirits made me unfit to read, 
Write, or think. 

1 have a hundred times wished that one could resign 
life as an ofHcer resigns a commission ; for which I 
would not iatei« any poor, ignorant wretch, by selling 
Out. Lately 1 was a sixpenny private , and, God 
Itnows, a miserable soldier enough : now I march to 
the campaign, a starving cadet ; a little more con- 
■picuoualy wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this: for though I do want 
bravery for the warfare of life, 1 could wish, like some 
other soldiers, to have as much fortiiudeor cunning as 
to dissemble or conceal my cowardice. 

As soon as t can bear the journey, which will he, I 
•oppose, about the middle of next week, I leave Edin- 
burgh and soiiii after I shall pay my gratefuldnly at 
Duniop-House. 



No. XLII. 

EXTRACT OP A LETTER. 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, I2th February, HSft. 
Somethings in your late letters hurt me: not that 
you say them, but that you mhtake me. keliaioii, 
my honoured Madam, has not only been all my lite my 
chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment. 1 hiivt 
indeed been the luckless viciim of wayward lollies : 
but, alas ; I have ever been " more fool ihan knave." 
A mathematician without religion is a probable cha- 
racter ; and an irreligious poet is a monster. 



XLIII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mossgiel, 1th March, IT'S. 
MADAM, 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th Febniary 
affected me most, so I shall begin my answer whera 
yoo ended your letter. That 1 am often a sinner with 
any little wit I have, I do confess : but I have taxed my 
recollection to no purpose to find out when it was em- 
ployed against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a 
great deal worse than I do the devil ; at leasi, as Mil- 
ton describes him ; and though 1 may be rascally 
enougn to be sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot en- 
dure it in others. You, my l.onoured friend, who can- 
not appear in any light hut you are sure of being re- 
spectable — you can afford to pass by an occasion to 
display your wit, because you my depend for fame ou 
your sense ; or, if you choose to be silent, yon know 
you can rely on the gratitude of many and the esteem 
of all ; but, God help us who are wits or witlings by 
profession, if we stand not for fame there, we sink un- 
supported I 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell mc of 
Coila.' 1 may say to the fair paiiHer who does me so 
much honour, as Dr. Seattle says to Ross fhe poet of 
his muse Scota, from which, by the by, 1 took the idea 
of Coila: ('Tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scuts dia^ 
lect, which perhaps you have never seen.) 

" Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wi' bnfl'e and flegs, 

Bombaz'd and dizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Waes me, poor hizzie I" 



XLIV. 

TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Mauchline, Zlst March, 1789. 
Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding thrnueh s 
track of melancholy, joyless muirs, between Galloway 
and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I turned my tlionjlim 
to psalms, and hymns, and .ipiritiial snngs . ami your 
favourite air Ctptain Okenn, coming at length in my 
head, 1 tried these wordstoit. You will see that the 
first part of the tune must be repeated. 1 

*A laciy (daughter of Mrs. Dunlnp) wa.i making 
a picture from the descripti-in of Coila in the \ision. 



t Here the Bard gives the first stanza of the " Chevar 
lier's Lament." 



78 



LETTERS. 



I Bin tolerably pleased with these verses ; but, as » 
have only a sketth of the tune I leave it with you to try 
if they suit the measure of the music. 

I am bO harrassed with care and anxiety about this 
funning project ofmuie, that my muse has degenera- 
ted into the veriest prose wench that ever picked cin- 
ders or followed a linker. When J am fairly got into 
the routine of business, I shall trouble you with a lon- 
ger epistle ; perhaps with some queries respecting far- 
ming ; at present the world sits such a load on my 
mind, thai it has effaced almost every trace of the 
in me. 

My very best compliments and good wishes to Mrs. 
ClegUurn. 



FROM MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Saughton Mills, '21th April, 1783. 
MY DEAR BROTHER FARMER, 

I was favoured with your very kind letter of the 31st 
lilt., and considering myself greatly obliged to you lor 
your attention in sending me the song,* to my favour- 
ite air, Capliin Okean. The words delight me much, 
they fit the tune to a hair. I wish you would send me 
a verse or twu mure : and if you have no objection, 1 
would have ii in the Jacobite style. Suppose it should 
be sung after the fatal field of Culloden by the ujifor- 
tiinate Charles. Tendccci personates the lovely Mary 
Stuart in the song, Queen Maiy^s Lamentation. Why 
miy noi 1 slug m the person of her great-great-great- 
p-andson.f 

Any skill I have in country business you may tru- 
ly command. Situation soil, customs of countries, 
may vary from each other^ but Farmer Attention is 
a good farmer in every place. I beg to hear from 
you soon. Mrs. Cleghorn joins me iu best compli: 
RienlB. 

I am, in the most comprehensive sense of the word, 
jroir Very sincere friend, 

ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



No. XLVI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, Wth April, 1788. 
MADAM, 

Your powers of reprehension must be great indeed, 
as I assure you they made my heart ache wiih peniten- 
tial pangs, even though I was really not guilty. As I 
commence farmer at Whilsumlay, you will easily 
guess 1 must be pretty busy ! but that is not all. As I 
put the offer of the excise business without solicila- 
lio ; as it ousts me only six months' attendance for 
instructions to entitle me to a commission, which com- 
mission lies hy me, and at any future period, on my 
simple petition, can be resumed: i thought five and- 
thirty pounds a-year was no bad dernier resort for a 

f)oor pi>et, if fortune, in her jade tricks, should kick 
lim down from the liltle eminence to which she has 
lately helped him. 

For this reason, 1 am at present attending these in- 
structions, to have them completed before Whitsun- 
day. Still, Madam, I prepared, with the sincerest 
pleasure, to meet you at the Mouni, and came to my 
brother's on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; 
bu* for some nights proceeding, I had slept in an 
partmeul where the force of llie winds and rains was 

* The Chevalier's Lament. 

t Our Poet took this advice. The whole of this beau- 
tiful song, as it was afterwards finished, is insertad in 
the litems. 



'niv mitigated by being sifted through ntimberlet 
aperturqe in the windows, walls, &c. In consequence 
I was on Sunday, Monday, and pan of Tuesday, una 
ble to stir out of bed, with all the miserable effectii o/ 
a violent cold. 

You see Madam, the truth of the French maxim,. 
Levrai n' est pas toujours le vraisemblabte. Your 
last was so full of expostulation, and was somclhingso 
like the languageof an offended friend, that i bi^gaii lo 
tremble for a correspondence which I had with grateful 
pleasure set down as one of the greatest enjoyments ot 
my future life. 



Your books have delighted me: Virgil, Dryden 
and TVisso, were ail equally strangers tome: but of 
this more at large in my next. 



No. XLVII. 



FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

Linsheart, 28/A April, 1780. 
DEAR SIR, 

1 received your last with the curious present yo^ 
have lavoured me with, and would have made propo 
acknowledgments before now, but thai 1 have been ne- 
cessarily engaged in matters of a ditl'rrent compiexion. 
And now, that I have got a little respite, I make use ol 
it to thank you for this valuable instance ol your good 
will, and to assure you that, with the sincere heart oj 
true ycolsnian, I highly eoteem both the gilt and lh« 
giver ; as a small testimony of which I have herewith 
sent you for your amusement (and in a form which I 
hope you will excuse lorsaving postage) the two songs 
1 wrote about to you already. Channins Nnncy is the 
real prudiiction of geimis in a ploughman of twenty 
years of age at the lime ol its appearing, with no more 
education than what he picked up at an old farmer- 
granillather's fire side, though now by the strength of 
iialiual parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach field ill 
the neighbourhotil. And 1 doubl not but you will find in 
it a simplicity and delicacy, with some turns of hu- 
mour, ihatvk'ill please one of your taste; at least it 
pleased me when 1 first saw it, il that can be any re- 
CumiMendation to il. The other is enlirely descrip- 
tive of my own sentiments : and you may make use of 
one or boih as yuu shall see good.* 

• CHARMING NANCY. 

A SONG BY A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune — " Humours of Glen." 

Some sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, 

And some call sweet Susie the cause ol their i-ain ; 
Some love to be jolly, some love melancholy, 

And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. 
But my only fancy is my pretty Nancy, 

in venting my passion I'll strive tu be plain ; 
I'll ask no mure treasure. I'll seek no more pleasure, 

But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 



Her beauty delights me, her kindness invites me. 

Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain, 
Therefore, my sweet jewel, do not prove cruel ; 

Consent, my dear Nancy, and come be my ain. 
Her carriage is comely, her language is homely, 

Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main ; 
She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in statur* 

My charming dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain I 

Like PhcEbus adorning the fa'r ruddy morninB, 
Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are »t i ea«, 



LETTERS. 



79 



Youmli oblige me by presenting my respects to your 
holt, Alr.Cruickshank, who has given such highappro- 
baiioii to my poor Latinity; you may let him know, that 
as J liave likewise been a babbler iu Latin poetry, I 
♦^;ive two things that 1 would, if he desires it, submit, 
uol to his jadgnisiu. but to his amusemeiii ; the one, a 
iranslatioa ot Christ's Kirk o' Ike Green, printed at 
Aljerdeen come years ago ; the other Balrachomyom- 
acfda Homeri latinis vestila cum addilnmentis, given 
in lately to Chalmers, to print if he pleases. Mr. C. 
will know Sera non semper dclectant, non Joca sem- 
per. Semper delectatU seria maxtajocis. 

I have just room to repeat compliments and good 
wishes from, 

Sir, your humble servant, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. LXVIII. 

TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

Mauc/iline, 3d May, 1788. 
SIR, 

i enclose to you one or two of my bagatelles. If the 
fervent wishes of honest gratitude have any influence 

Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining, 
My charming sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain ? 

The whole of her face is with maidenly graces 
Array'd iike the gowans that grow lu yon glen ; 

She's well shap'd and slender, true-hearted and ten- 
der. 
My charming sweet Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! 

I'U seek thro' the nation for some habitption, 

To sheltermy jewel fcom cold, snow, and rain. 
With songs to my deary, 1 '11 keep her ay cheery. 

My charming sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 
I'll work at my calling to furnish thy dwelling, 

With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain ; 
Thou Shalt not sit single, but by a clear ingle, 

I'll marrow thes, Nancy, when thou art my ain. 

I'll make true afiection the constant direction 

Of loving my Nancy, while life doth remain : 
Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be lasting, 

My charming sweet Nancy, gin too wert my aia. 
But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy, 

To favour another be forward and fain, 
1 will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell her. 

Begone, thou false Nancy, thou'se ne'er be my oin. 

THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 
BY THE REVEREND .1. SKINNER. 



Tune 



■ Dumbarton Drums. 



O ! why should old age so much wound us ? O, 
There is nothing in't ail to confound us, O, 

For how happy now am I, 

With my old wife sitting by. 
And our bairns and our oys all around us, O. 

We began in the world wi' naething, O, 
And we've jogg'd on and toil'd for the ae thing, O, 
We made use of what we had. 
And our thankful hearts were glad. 
When we got the bit meat and the claething, O. 

We have livVl ail our life-time contented, O, 
Siticethe day we became first acquainted, O, 



with the gr«at unknown Being, who frames th* chain 
of causes and events, prosperity and happiness will 
attend your visit to the Gontineul, and return you 
safe to your native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim as it is my 
privilege to acquaint you with my progress in my trade 
of rhymes ; as 1 am sure 1 could say it with truth, 
that the next to my little frame, and the having it io 
my power to make life a little more comfortable to 
those whom nature has made dear to me, t shall ever 
regard your countenance, your patronage, your tiieiid- 
ly good offices, as the mosi valued consequence of ray 
late success iu life. 



No. XLIX. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, ith Miy, 1788. 
MADAM, 

Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I rtc not know 
whether the critics will agree with me, bat the Gear- 

It's true we've been but poor. 
And we are so to this hour, 
Yet we never yet repined nor lamented, O. 

We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, O 
By ways that were cunning or stealthy, O, 
Bui we always had the bliss. 
And what further could we wiss, 
To be pleas'dwi' ourselves, and be healthy, O. 

What tho' we canna boast of our guineas, O, 
We have plenty of Jockies and Jennies, O, 

And these I'm certain, are 

More desirable by far. 
Than a pocket full of poor yellow sleenles, O. 

We have seen many wonder and ferlie, O, 
Ofchauges that almost are veariy, kj, 

Among rich folks up and down, 

Both in country and in town. 
Who now livie butscrimply and barely, O. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity, O^ 
A straitened life we see is no rarity, O, 

Indeed we've been iu want, 

And our living been but scant. 
Yet we never were reduced to need charity, C 

In this house we first came together, O, 

Where we've long been a Father and a Mither, O, 

And, tho' not of stone and lime, 

It will last us a' our time, 

And, I hope, we shall never need anither, O. 

«c 
And when we leave this habitation, O, 
We'll depart with a good commer dation, O 

We'll go hand in hand I wiss. 

To a better house than this , 
To make room for the next generation, O. 

Theii why should old age so rauc h wound us ? O, 
There's nothing in't all to confn.md us, O, 

For how happy now am 1 , 

With mv old wife sittine ay. 
And our oairns and our oys all trouud u», O. 



80 



LETTERS. 



giet are to m* by far the best of Vireil. ft is, indeed, 
& epccies ot' writing eiituely new lo lue, and lias filltjil 
my bead with a ihuusaiid fancies of emulaiioa ; bui, 
ala> when I read ihe GdOrg^ics and then survey ray 
powers, 'tis iilie the idea of a Shetland puny, drawn 
up by the side of a thorough bred liunter, to start for 
the plate. 1 own 1 am disappointed ni the JEni-d. 
Faultless correctness may please, and does highly 
please the lettered critic : but to thai awlul character 1 
have not the most distant pretentions. [ do not know 
whether 1 do not hazard my pretensions to be a critic 
of any kirrd, when 1 say, that 1 think Virgil, in many 
instances, a servile copier of Homer, if 1 had the 
Odyssey by me, i could parallel many passages 
where Virgil has evidently copied, but uy no means 
improved Homer. Nor can I think '.here is any thing 
of this owing to the translators ; for, from every thing 
I have seen of Drydeu, I think him, in genius and flu- 
ency of language. Pope's master, i have not perused 
Tasso enough to form an opinion , in some future let- 
ter you shall have ray ideas of him ; though I am con- 
scious my criticisms must be very inaccurate and im- 
perfect as there 1 have ever fell and lamented my want 
of learning must. 



No. L. 



TO THE Same. 

•Zllh May, 1788. 
MADAM, 

1 have been torturing my philosophy to no porpoae 
to account for that kind partfalily of yoors, which, un- 
like * " * has followed me in my return to the 
•hade of life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did 
I regret, in the fleeting hours of my VVill-o'-VVifp ap- 
pearance, that " here I had no continuing city ;" and, 
but for the consolation of a few solid guineas, could 
almost lament the time that a momentary acquaint- 
Bnce with wealth and splendour put me so much out uf 
conceit with the sworn cuinpaiiions of my road through 
life, iasigniticaace and poverty. 



There are few circumstances relating to the unequal 
distribution of the good things of this life, that give me 
more vexation (1 mean in what I see around me,) 
than the importance the opulent bestow on their tri- 
fling family affairs, compared with the very same 
things on the contracted scale of a cottage. Last af- 
ternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or two at 

good woman's fire-side, where the planks that com- 
posed the floor were decorated with a splendid carpet, 
and the gay tables s|iarkled with silver and china. 
'Tis now about term-day, and there has been a revolu- 
tion among those creatures, who, though in appear- 
ance partakers, and equally noble partakers, ol the 
same nature with Madame, are from time to time, 
Iheir nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, wis- 
dom, experience, genius, time, nay, a good part of 
their very thoughts, sold for months and years, * 

" * not only to the necessities) the conveniences, 
but the caprices of the important few.* We talked of 
the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwithstanding their 
general stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor 
devils the honour to commend them. But light be the 
lurf upon his breast who taught — " Reverence thy- 
self." We looked down on the unpilished wretches, 
their impertinent wives and clouierly brats, as the 
lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, whose puny 
inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness of his ram- 
blsM, or tosses in the air in the wauiouness of his pride. 



8»r»ant» in Scotland, are hired from term to 
a ; i. e. from Whitsujdav to Martinmas, &c. 



No. LI. 

TO THE SAME. 

AT MR. DUNLOP'S, HADfJI.NGTON. 

EUisland, \9th June, ITSt 

" Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untraveli'd, fondly turns to thee, 
Still to my friend returns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengihen'd chain." 

Goidsimth, 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I 
have been on my farm. A solitary inmate of an old 
smoky ^'pe/ice ; tar from every ')bject I love, or by 
whom 1 am beloved ; nor any acquaintance older than 
yesterday, except Je u.y Geddts, the old mure I ride 
on ; while uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult 
my awkward ignorance and Dashful inexperience. 
There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul in the 
hour of care; consequently, the dreary objects seem 
larger than the lile. Kxireine sensibiUty, irritated 
and prejudiced on the gloomy side by a aeries of mis- 
fortunes and disappointmenis, at that perioil of my 
existence when the soul is laying in her c.tigo uf ideas 
for the voyage of life, is, 1 believe, the principal cai •• 
of tins unhappy frame ofinind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his single woes.-"' &c. 

Your surmise, M-<dam, is just ; I am Indeed a hus 
band. 



I found a once much-loved and sti'l much-loved fe- 
male, literally and tiiily cast out to the mercy of the 
naked elements ; but I enabled her lo punhiisea shel- 
ter; and there is no sporting with a fellow-creature'f 
happiness or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness nf dispo- 
sition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted with all its 
powers to love me ; vigorous health and a|)rightly 
cheerfulness, set ofl" to the beat advantage bv a more 
Ihun commonly handsome figure; these, 1 ihinic in a. 
woman, may make a good wile, though she should 
never have rea<l a page hut the ScripUtren of the Old 
and New T stument, nor have danced in a brighter 
assembly than a panny-pay wedding. 



No. LIL 

TO MR. P. HILL. 

MY DEAR HILL, 

I shall say nothing at all to your mad prese'.t — too 
have long and often been of important service to me, 
and I suppose you mean to go on conferring obliga- 
tions until I shall not be able to lift up my tace helora 
you. In the mean time, as Sir Roger de C overly, be 
cause it happened lo he a colil day in -vhich he madf 
his will, ordered his servants great routs for moiirniiig 
so, because I have been tins week plagued with an in 
digestion, 1 have sent you by '.ne carrier a fine old 
ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : aay, 'tis the devil and all. 
It besets a man in every one of his senses i lose my 
appetite at the sight of siiccessful kr.avery, and sicken 
to loathing at the noise and r.onhenee of self Importan; 
folly. When the hollnw-nearied wretch lakes me by 
the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner ; the proud 
man's wine so offends my palate that it chok^/ 1»» '^ 



LETTERS. 



the pailel ; and the puleilieed, feathered, pert 
•rirnb, ia »o dUguslful ;amy nostril, thai my ator 
t'lrns. 



my atomach 



If erer you have any of thete disagreeable senaa 
tiona, let me prescribe for you patience and a bit of 
my cheese. I know that you are no niggard of your 
good things among your friends, and some of them are 
in much need of a slice. There in my eye is our 
friend, Smellie ; a man positively of the first abilities 
and greatest atrenjth of mind, as well as one of the 
best hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met 
with ; when you see him, as alas ! he too is smarting 
at the pinch of distressful circuinstunces, aggravated 
by the sneer ol contumelious greatness — a bit of my 
rheesfc alone will not cure him ; but if you add a tan- 
kard of brown stout, and superadd a magnum of right 
Oporto, you will see his sorrows vanish like the morn- 
ing misi before the summer sun. 

C h, the earliest friend, except my only broth- 

er, that I have on earth, and one of the worthiest fel- 
lows that ever any man called by the name of friend, 
'ifaiuncheon of my cheese would help to rid him of 
aome of his superabundant modeaty, you would do 
Well to give it him. 

David,* with his CourarH, comes too, across my 
recollection, and I beg you will help him largely from 
the said ewe-milk cheese, to enable him to digest those 
— bedaubing paragraphs with which he is eternally 
larding the lean characters of certain great men in a 
certain great town, I grant you the periods are very 
well turned ; so, a fresh egg is a very good thing, but 
when thrown at a man in a pillory it does not at all 
improve his figure, not to mention the irreparable loss 
ot the egg. 

My facetions friend, D — '• — r, I would wish also to 
be a partaker: not to digest his spleen, for that he 
laughs off, but to digest his last night's wine at the last 
field day of the Crochallan corps.i 

Among our common friends, I must not forget one 
of the dearest of them, Cunningham. The brutality, 
Insolence, and selfishness of a world unworthy of ha- 
ying such a fellow as he ia in it, 1 know sticks in his 
stomach : and if you can help him to any thing that 
will make him a little easier on that score, it will be 
Tery obliging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a content- 

ed happy man, that 1 know not what can annoy him, 
except perhaps he may not have got the better of a par- 
cel of modest anecdotes which a certain poet gave him 
one night at supper, the last time the said poet was in 
town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of law, I 
■hall have nothing to do with them professedly. The 
faculty are beyond my prescription. As to their clients, 
that is another thing : God knows they have much to 
digest I 

The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of erudition, 
and their liberality of sentiment ; their total want of 
pride, and their detestation of hypocrisy, are so pro- 
verbially notorious as to place them far, far above 
either my praise or censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, whom I 
have the honour to call friend, the Laird of Craigdar- 
roch ; but T have spoken to the landlord of the King's- 
arms inn hero, to have, at the next county-meeting, a 
large ewe-milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of 
the Dumfriesshire whigs, to enable them to digest the 
Duke of Q,ueen3berry's late political conduct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity of a private 
hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you would not digest 
double postage. 



• Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. 
t A club of choice ipiriti- 



No. LIIl. 



TOMRS. DUNLOP 

Mauc/dine, 2d August, 1788. 
HONOURED M.4DAM, 

Your kind letter welcomed me, yesternight, to Ayr- 
shire. 1 am indeed seriously angry with yoi, at the 
qurntum luck-penny : but, vexed and hurt as 1 was, I 
could not help laughing very heai tily at the noble 
Lord's apology for the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdalt and give you my 
direction there, but I have scarce an opportunity of 
calling at a post-office once in a fortnight. I am sin 
miles from Dumfries, am scarcely cver'in it myself, 
and, as yet, have little acquaintance in the liei^b- 
bourhuod. Besides, I am now very Dusy on my farm, 
building a dwelling-house ; as at present 1 am almost 
an evangelical man in Nilhsdale, fori have sca.ce 
" where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last that hrought 
tears in my eyes. " The heart knoweth its own sor- 
rows, and a stranger intermeddleth not therewith." 
The repository of these " sorrows of the heart," is a 
kind of sanctum sanctorum ; and 'tis only a choseu 
friend, and that too at particular sacred times, who 
dares enter into them. 



" Heaven oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the 
author. Instead of enlerin? on this subject farther, I 
shall transcribe you a few lines I wrote in a hermit- 
age belonging to a gentleman in my Nilhsdale tieigh- 
boiirhood. They are almost the only favours the 
muses have conferred on me in that country.* 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following 
wei'e the production of yesleri.ay, as 1 jogged through 
the wild hills of New-Cumnock. 1 inleml inserting 
them, or something like them, in an epistle 1 am going 
to write to the gentleman on whose friendship my ex- 
cise-hopes depend, Mr. Graham of Fintry, one of the 
worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen, not only 
of this country, but I will dare to say it, of this age. 
The following are just the first crude thoughts " uu 
houseled, unanointed, unannealed." 



Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train : 

Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 

The world were bless'd, did bliss on them depend ; 

Ah ! that "the friendly e'er should want a friend !" 

The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 

Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 

Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 

Who feel by reason, and who give by rule ; 

(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 

Who make poor tciW do wait upon I should 

We own they're prudent, but who owns ihey'r good f 

Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye I 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come 

Here the muse left me, I am astonished at what yon 
tell me of Anthony's writing me. I never received it. 
Poor fellow ! you vex me much by telhngme that he is 
unfortunate. 1 shall bein Ayrshire ten days from ihii 
date. I have just room for an old Roman farewell I 



The lines transcribed were those written ta Fri- 
ars Carse Hermitage. 

L 2 



82 



LETTERS. 



No. LIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

Mauchline, XOth August, .788. 
MV MUCH HONOURKD FRIEND, 

7ours of ihe 24th June is before me. 1 found it, as 
well as another valued friend— m/ wife, wailing to 
welcome me to Ayrsliire : I met both witli the sin- 
cerest pleasure. 

When I write yon, Madam, I do not sit down to an- 
swer every paragraph of yours, by echoing every sen- 
timent, like the faithful Commons of Great Britain in 
Parliament assenibjed, answering a speech from the 
best of kings! 1 express myself in the fulness of my 
heart, and may perhaps be guilty of neglecting some 
of your kind inquiries ; but not, from your very odd 
reason, that I do not read your letters. All your 
epistles for several months have cost rae nothing, ex 
cept a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep felt »enti 
ment of veneration. 

Mrs. Burns, Madam, is the identical woraau 



When she first found herself " as wish to be 

who love their lords," as 1 loved hernearly to distrac- 
tion, we took steps for a private marriage. Her pa- 
rents got the hint : and not only forbade me her com- 
pany and the house, but, on my rumoured VVestln- 
diaii voyage, got a warrant to put rae in jail till I 
should find security in my about-to be paternal rela- 
tion. You know my lucky reverse of forlmie. On my 
eel itant return to Mauchline, 1 was maile very wel- 
come to visit my girl. The Visual consequences began 
to betray her ; and as I was at that time laid up a 
cripple in Edinburgh, she was tm-ned, literally turned 
out of doors : and I wrote to a friend to shelter her 
till my return, when ou-. marriage was declared. lier 
happiness nr misery were in my hands ; and who Could 
trifle with such a deposite ? 



I can easily fancy a more agreeable companion for 
my journey of life, but, upon ray honour, 1 have never 
eeen the individual lostance. 



Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a fe- 
male partner for lile, who could have entered into my 
favourite studies, relished my favourite authors, &c. 
without probably entailing on me, at the same time, 
expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish af- 
fectation, with all the other blessed boarding-school 
acquirements, which (pardonnez moi. Mad nne.) are 
someiiines, to be found among females of the upper 
ranks, but almost universally pervade the missea of 
the would-be-gentry. 



I like your way in your chnrch-yard lucubrations. 
Thoughts that are the spontaneous result of accidental 
eituations, either respecting health, place, or compa- 
ny, have often a strength and always an originality, 
that would in vain be looked for in fancied circum- 
stances and studied paragraphs. Forme, I have often 
Ihonght of keeping a letter m prosression, by me, to 
send yon when the sheet was written out. Now I 
talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to 
you on paper of this kind, is my pruriency of writing 
to you at large. A page of jiosl is on such a dissocial 
narrow-minded scale that 1 cannot abide it ; and dou- 
ble letters, at least in my miscellaneous reverie muu- 
Ber, are a raoiiblruus lax io a close <:orrespundeuce. 



No. LV. 

TO THE SAME. 



EUisland, Wlk, August, 1788. 
I am in a fine disposition, my honourea friend, to 
send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only gijniiis to 
make it quite Shenstonian. 

" Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn? 
Why sinks ray soul beneath each winl'ry sky ?" 



My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange country- 
gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of fijturity — con. 
sciousness of my own inability for the struggle' of the 
world — my broadened mark to misfortune in a wile 
and children ;— I could indulge these reflections, till 
my humour should ferment into the most acid chagrin, 
that would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I hare sat 
down to write to you ; as I declare upon my soul, I 
always find that the most sovereign balm for my 
wounded spirit. 

* 

I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner for the 

first time. My reception was quite to my minfl : 
from the lady of the house, quite flattering. She some- 
times hits on a couplet or two, impromptu. .She re- 
peated uneortwo in the admiration of all (iresenl. My 
suffrage as a professional man, was expected: I for 
once went agonizins over the belly of my conscience. 
I'ardon me, ye, my adored household gods — Indej'end- 
ence of Spirit, and integrity of Soul ! In the course 
of conversation, Johnson's Musical Museum, a col- 
lection of Scottish songs with the music, was lalkedof. 
We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning, 

" Raving winds around her blowing."* 

The air was much admired ; the lady of the house 
asked me whose were the words ; " Mine, Madam— 
they are indeed my very best verses :" she took not 
the smallest notice of them ! The old Scottish proverb 
says well, " king's caflis better than itherfolk's corn." 
1 was going to mnke a New Testament quotation 
about " casting pearls ;" but that would he too viru- 
lent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and 



After all that has been said on the other side of the 
question, man is by no means a happy creature. I do 
not speak of the selected few favoured by partial hea- 
ven ; whose souls are turned to gladness, amid riches 
and honours, and prudence and wisdom. 1 sjjeak ol 
(he ncelecterl many, whose nerves, whose sinews, 
whose days, are sold to the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, 1 would transcribe 
for you a stanza of an old Scottish bflllad, called Thi 
Life and Age of Man; beginning thus ; 

" 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 

Of God and fifty-three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

As writings testifie." 

I had an old grand-nncle, with whom my mothei 
lived awhile in her girlish years ; the good old man, 
for such he was, was long blind ere he died, during 
which time, his highest enjoyment was to sit down and 
cry, while my mother would sing the simple old sung 
of r/t; Life and Age of Man. 

It is this way of thinking, it is these me'aqchoV 
truths, that make religion so precious to the poor, 



' See Poems, p. 103. 



LETTERS. 



83 



VMarable children of men — if it is a mere pliantom, ex- 
tatiug only ' 'he heated imagination of ealhusiasra. 

" V»nat truth on earth so precious as the lie?" 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little scep- 
tical, but thf r.ecessities ot my heart always give tlie 
cold philosophizings the lie. Who looks for the heart 
weaned from earth ; the soul affianced to her God ; the 
correspondence fixed with heaven ; the pious eupplica 
tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicissi- 
tudes of*v£;i and morn ; who thinks to meet with these 
in the court, the palace, in the glare of public life? 
No : to find them in their precious importance and di- 
vine efficacy, we must search among the obscure re- 
cesses of disappoiulraent, affliction, poverty, and dis- 
tress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more than 
pleased with the length of my letters. I return to 
Ayrshire middle of next week j and it quickens my 
pace to think that there will be a letter from you 
waiting me there. I must be here again very soon fur 
my liarvest- 



No. LVI. 

TO R. GRAHAM, ESa. OF FINTRY. 

SIR, 

When I had the honour of being introduced to you at 
Athole-honse, 1 did not think so soon of asking a favour 
of you. When Lear, in Shakspeare, asks old Kent why 
he wishes ♦o be in his service, he answers, "Because 
you have that in your face which I could like to call 
master." For some such reason, Sir, do I nowsolicit 
your patronage. You know, I dare say, of an appli- 
cation I lately made to your Board to be admitted an 
officer ofexcise. I have, according to form, been ex- 
amined uy a supervisor, and to-day 1 gave in his certifi 



witha request fcran order for instructions. In 
thisafFair, if I succeed, 1 am afraid I shall hut too miicli 
need a patronising friend. I ropriety of conduct as a 
man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, 1 dare en- 
gage for : but with any thing like business, except 
manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. 



1 had intended to have closed my late appearance on 
the stage of life in the character of a country farmer ; 
but, after discharging some filial and fraternal claims, 
I find 1 could only fight for existence in that miserable 
manner, which I have lived to see throw a venerable 
parent into the jaws of a jail : whence death, the 
poor man's last and often best friend, rescued him. 

I know, Sir, that to need your goodness is to have a 
claim on it ; may I therefore beg your patronage to 
forward me in this aflfair, till I be appointed to a divi- 
•lon, where, by the help of rigid ecojiomy, I will try to 
tupporl that independence so dear to my soul, but 
Which has been too often so distant from my situation.* 



No. LVII. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Mauchline, 1st October, 1788. 
I have been here in this country about three days, 
^^ all that time my chief reading has been the " Ad- 
V «8s to l.och-Lomond," you were so oblising as to 
•Mrtdtome. Were 1 empannclled one of the author's 
Jv y to determine his criminality respecting the sin of 
poesy, my verdict should be " guilty I A poet of Na 

* Here followed the poetical part of the Epistle, 
given in the Poems. 



ture's making." It is an excellent method for mi 
provement, and what I believe every poei does, to 
place some favourite classic author, in his own wain 
of study and composition, before him as a model. 
Though your author had not mentioned the name I 
could have, at half a glance, guessed his model to be 
Thomson. Will my brother poet forgive me. if I ven- 
ture to hint, that his imitation of that immortai hard 
is, in two or three places, rather more servile than 
such a genius as his required— e. g. 

To sooth the madding passions all to peace. 

Address. 
To sooth the throbbing passions into peace. 

Thomson, 

I think the Address is, in simplicity, harmony, and 
elegance of versification, fully equal to the S.e'jsons, 
Like Thomson, too, he has looked into nature for him- 
self; yon meet with no co|jii-d description. One par- 
ticidar criticism 1 made at first reading ; in no one in- 
stance has he said (no much. He never flags in his 
progress, but, like a true poet of Nature's making, 
kindles in his course. His beginning is simple and 
modest, as if distrustful of the strength of his puiion ; 
only, 1 do not altogether like — 



The soul of every i 



" Tnith, 
that's nobly great." 



Fiction is the soul of many a song that is nobly 
great, i'erhaps I am wrong : this may be but a prose- 
criticism. Is not the phrase, in /zne 7. page6. " Great 
Lake," too much vulgarized "^y every-day language, 
for so sublime a poem i" 

" Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of a com- 
parison with other lakes is at once harmonious and 
poetic. Every reader's ideas must sweep the 

" Winding margin of an hundred mileB." 

The perspective that follows mountains blue — the 
imprisoned billows beating in vain — the wooded isles — 
the digression on the yew tree — "Ben-Lomond's lolty 
cloud envelop'd head," &c. are beautiful. A thun- 
der-storm is a subject which has been often tried: yet 
our poet in his grand picture, has interjected a circum- 
stance, 80 far as 1 know, entirely original : 

" The gloom 
Deep-seamed with frequent streaks of moving .''re," 

In his preface to the storm, " The glens, how dark 
between !" is noble highland landscape ! The ''rain 
ploughing the red mould, too, is beautifully fancied. 
Ben-Lomond's "lofty pathless top," is a good ex- 
pression ; and the surrounding view frcm it is truly 
gteat : the 

" Silver mist 
Beneath the beaming sun," 



is well described : and here he has contrived to enliven 
his poem with a little of that passion which bids fair, I 
think, to usurp the modern muses altogether. 1 know 
not how far this episode is a beauty upon the whole ; 
but the swain's wish to carry " some faint idea of the 
vision bright," to entertain her " partial Hstenii.g 
ear," is a pretty thought. But, in my opinion, the 
most beautiful passages in the whole poem are the 
fowls crowding, in wintry frosis, to Loch Lomond's 
" hospitable flood ;" their wheeling rounrl, their light- 
ing, mixing, diving, &c. ; and the glorious description 
of the sportsman. This last is e^uHl lo any thing in 
the Seasons. The idea of " the fiyaiinerribes distaj.t 
seen, far glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as 
he is obliged to leave them, is a nobl ruy of postie 



84 



LETTERS. 



genin*. " The howling winds," the " hideous roar" 
of " the white cakcades," are all in the same style. 

I forget that, while I am thus holding forth, with 
the heedless warniili of an enthusiast, 1 am perhaps ti- 
ring you with iioneeiiae. 1 must, however, mention, 
that the last verse ot the sixteenth page is one ul the 
most elega^il compliments I have ever seen. I must 
likewise notice thai beautiful paragraph, beginning, 
" The gleaming lake," &c. 1 dare not go into the 
particular beauties oflhe two last paragraphs, but they 
are ailniirahly line, and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened scrawl. 
1 had ni' idea of it when I began — I should like to know 
who the author is ; but, whoever he be, please pre- 
sent him with my grateful ihaiiKs for theeniertainmeut 
he has atiViriled me.* 



A friend of mine desired me to commission for him 
two books, Letlvra on the Religion esse iti it to Man, a 
book you sent me before ; and, The World Unmasked, 
or the PhiLosopker ike gre Uent Cheat. Send me them 
by the first opporlunily. The Bible you sent me is 
truly elegant. 1 only wish it had been in two vol- 
umes. 



No. LVIII. 

TO MRS. DDXLO.°, AT MOREHAM MAINS. 

Mauckline, \Zth November, 1788. 
MADAM, 

I had the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlnp 
yesterday. Men are said to llailer *ome;i because 
they are weak ; if ills so, poets must lie weaker siill ; 
for Misses R. and K., and Aliss G. MK., with their 
flallering aitenlions and artful compliments, absolute- 
ly turned my head. I own they did not lard me ov-r 
as many a poet does his patron • • • • but they 
■o intoxicated me with their sly insinuations and deli- 
cate inuendoes of coinplimeiKs that if it had not been 
for a lucky recollection, how much additional weight 
and lustre your good opinion and friendship must give 
me in that circle. I had certainly looked upon myself 
as a person of no small consequence. I dare not say 
one word how mMch 1 was charmed with the Major's 
friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute remark, 
lest I should be thouglii to balance my orientalisms of 
applause over against the finest queyl in Ayrshire, 
Which he made me a present of lo help and adorn my 
etiick. As It was on llaliowday, I am determined an 
nually, as that day returns, lo decorate lier horns 
*riih an ode of gratitude lo the family of Dunlop. 



So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, 1 ■k'M 
take the first conveyance to dedicate a day, or perhaps 
two, to yo.i and frieudsliip, under the guarantee of the 
Major's hospitality. There will be soon threescore 
and ten miles of permanent distance between us; and 
now that your friendship ai.d friendly correspondence 
is entwisted wiih the hcart-striius of my enjoyment of 
life, I must indulge myself in a happy day of " The 



feast of 



and the flow of soul. 



No. LIX. 

TO • • • 



November 8, 1788. 
SIR, 

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with which 
•ome of our philosophers and gloomy sectaries have 

' The poem, entitled. An Address to Loch-Lomond, 
y said to be written by a gentleman, now one of the 
Masters of the High-schoul at Kdiubuigh ; and the 
•aaie who translated the beautiful story of the Parin, 
•a published ui the Bee of Ur. Anderson. K. 
♦ Heifer. 



branded otir nature — the principle of iinlrersal lelfiih* 

ness, the proneness to all evil, they havegiven us ; sliU 
the detestation in which inhumanity tc the distressed, 
or insolence to the fallen, are held Dy all mankiiiu, 
shows that they are not motives of the human heart. 
Even the unhappy partner of our kin'l, who is undone 
by the bitter consequence of his follies or his crimes .— 
who but sympathiiLes with the miseries of this ruined 
profligate brother i* we forgo' the injuries, and feel for 
the man. 

1 went, last Wednesday to ray parish-church, most 
cordially lo join in grateful acknowledgemeiiis to the 
Author of all Good, for the consequent blessings of 
the glorious Revokition. To thai auspicious event we 
owe no less than our liberties, civil and religious, lo it 
we are likewise indebted for our present Royal Fami- 
ly, the ruling features of whose administration have ev- 
er been mildness lo the subject, and tenderness of his 
rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, the 
principles of reason and common sense, it cuiild not 
be any silly pclitical prejudice which made my heart, 
revolt at the harsh, abusive manner in which the rev. 
ereiid gentleman mentiuned the House of Stewart, and 
which, I am afraid, was too much the language of thb 
day. We may rejo.ce sulhciently in our deliverance 
from past evils, wuhout cruelly raking up the ashes of 
those whose misforume it was, perhaps as much a« 
their crime, to be the authors of those evils; and wb 
may bless Go<l for all his goodness lo us a» a nation, 
wiitiout, at the same lime, cursing a few ruined, 
powerless exiles, who only harboured ideas, and made 
attempts, ihat most of us would have done had we been 
in their situation. 

" The bloody and tyrannicallionseof Stewart," may 
be saifl with propriety and justice when compared 
with the present Royal Family, and the aentimenls ol 
ourdays; but is there no allowance 10 be made for 
the manners of the time .•* Were the royal contempo- 
raries of the Stewarts more aittntive lo iheir subjects' 
rights.'' Might not the epithets ol " bloody and ty- 
rannical." be withal least equal justice applied lo the 
House of Tudor, of York, or any other of their prede- 
cescars .-• 

The simple stale of the case. Sir, seems to be this :— 
At thai period, the science of government, the knowl- 
edge of the true relation between king and subject, 
was, like oilier sciences and other knowledge, just iu 
its infancy, emerging fruin dark ages ot ignorance and 
barbarity. 

The Siewarls oiily contended for prerogatives which 
they kiiesv their predecessors enjoyed, and which they 
saw their conieinpoi aries enjoying ; but these pre- 
rugaiives were inimical to the happiness of a naliou 
and the rights of subjects. 

In this contest between prince and people, the con- 
sequence of that light. )f science which had lately dawn- 
ed over Europe, the munarch of France, for example, 
was viclmious over the struggling liberties of his peo- 
ple ; with us, luckily, the monarch failed, and his tin- 

irra. liable pretensions fell a saci irice to our riehu 
_..d happiness. Whether il was owiim lo ihe wisdom 
of leadiii;; individuals, or lo the juslling ol parlien, I 
cannol pretend lo iletermiiie ; but likewise, happily for 
U8, the kingly power was shifted into Hiiniher tiranch 
of the family, who, as they owed the throne solely to 
the call of a free people, coild claim nothing iiicon- 
ielent with the coveuaaled lerini which placed Ihern 
there. 

The Stewarts have been condemned and lanjjhedat 
for their follv and iiripracticabiliiy of iheir aiieinpts ia 
1715 and 1745. 'Phat they failed, I bless God; but 
cannot join in the ridicule against them. Who dot-i 
not know thul the abilities or defects ol leaders and 
commanders are olien hidden, until put to the toucl>- 
stone lit exigency; and that there i» a caprice of tor- 
tune, an omnipotence in particular accidents and con- 
junctures of circumstances which exalt us at heroea, 



LETTERS. 



85 



•r brand us at madmen, ]uet a* they are for or against 



Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, inconsist- 
ent being ; who would believe, Sir. that in this, our 
Augustan age of liberahty and lefiiietneiit, whilewe 
Beem so jusl'ly sensible and jealous of our riglito and 
liberties, and animated with such iiidignatioM againsi 
the very memory of those who would have subverted 
them — that a certain people under our national protec- 
tion, should complain, not against our monarch and a 
few favourite advisers, but ix^a.'n\^i our w/iole legisla- 
tive body, for similar oppression, and almost in the 
very same terms, as our forefathers did of the House of 
Stewart '. I will not, I cannot enter into the merits of 
the cause, but I dare say, the American Congress, in 
1776, will be allowed to be as able and as enlightened 
as the English Convention was in 1688 : and that their 
posterity will celebrate the centenary of their deliver- 
ance from us, as didy and sincerely as we do ours 
fiom the oppressive measures of the wrong-headed 
House of Stewart. 

To conclude. Sir ; let every man who has a tear for 
the many miseries incident to humanity, feel for a 
family illustrious as any in Europe, and unfortunate 
beyond histuric precedent ; and let every Briton, (and 
particularly every Scotsman,) who fver looked with 
reverential pity on the dotage ol a parent, cast a veil 
over the fatal mistakes of the kings ot his fore-fa- 
thers.* 



No. LX. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland. llth Dec. 1788. 
MY DEAR, HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours, dated Edintmrgh, which I have just read, 
makes me very unhappy. " Almost blind, and wholly 
deaf," are melancholy news of human nature ; but 
when told of a much-loved and lionoured friend, they 
carry misery in the souud. Goodness oii your pari, 
and gratitude on mine, began a tie, which has gradually 
and strongly entvvisted itself among the dearest cords 
of my bosom ; and I tremble at the omens of your late 
and present ailing habits and shattered health. You 
miscalculate matters widely, when you forbid my 
waiting on you, lest it should hurl my worldly con- 
cerns. My small scale of farming is exceedi.igly more 
simple and easy than what you have lately seen at 
Moreham Mains. But be that as it may, the heart of 
the man, and the fancy of the poet, are the two grand 
considerations for which 1 live : if miry ridges and 
dirty dunghills are to engross the best part of the 
functions of my soul immortal, 1 had better been a 
rook or a magpie at once, and then 1 should not have 
been plagued with any ideas superior to breaking of 
clods, and picking up grubs : not to mention barn 
door cocks or mallards, creatures with which I could 
almost exchange lives at any time — If you continue so 
deaf, 1 am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to 
either of us ; but if 1 hear you are got so well again as 
to he able to relish conversation, look you to it. Mad- 
am, for 1 will make my threatenings got"!. I am to be 
at the new-year day fair of Ayr, and uy ad that is 
saured in the word Friend ! 1 will come and see you. 



Ymir meeting, which you so well describe, with your 
old echool-fellow and friend, was truly interesting. 
On', upon the ways of the world I— They spoil these 
" social offsprings of the heart." Two veterans of 
the •' men of the world" would have met with little 
more heiirt-workings than two old hacks worn out on 
the road. Apro|)OS, is not the Scotch phrase, " Auld 
Miug syne," exceedingly expressive? There is an old 

■* Thialetter was sent to the puMisherof some news- 
paper, probably the publishei of tha Edinburgh Eve- 
ning CowojU. 



song and tune which has often thrilled through my 
soul. You know I am an enlhusiusi in old Scotch 
songs : I shall give you the verses on the other sheet, 
as I suppose Mr. Kerr will save you the postage.* 

Light be the turf on the breast of the Heaven-inspired 
poet who composed this glorious fragment ! There i« 
more of the fire of native genius in it than half a dozen 
of modern English Bacchanahans. Now 1 am on my 
hobby-horse, I cannot help inserting two other staa> 
zas which please me mightily. | 



No. LXI. 

TO MISS DAVIES. 

A young lady who had heard he had been making « 
Ballad on her, enclosing that Ballad. 

December, 1788. 
MADAM, 

1 understand my very worthy neiehbour, Mr. Rid- 
dle, has informed you that I have made you the sub. 
ject of some verses. There is something so provoking 
in the idea of being the burden of a ballad, that I doinit 
think Job or Moses, though such patterns of patience 
and meekness, could have resisted the curiosity to 
know what thai ballad was : so my worthy friend has 
done me a mischief, which, I dare say, he never in- 
tended ; and reduced me to the unfortunate alierna- 
tive of leaving your curiosity ungratified, or else dis- 
gusting you with foolish verses, the unfinished produc- 
tion of a random moment, and never meant lo have 
met your ear. 1 have heard or read si-mewhere of a 
gentleman, who had some geidus, much eccentricity, 
and very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In 
the accidental group of life into which one is thrown, 
wherever this gentleman met with a character in a 
more than ordinary degree congenial to hia heart, he 
used to steal a sketch of the face, merely, as he said, at 
a nota bene to point out the agreeable recollection to 
his memory. What this gentleman's pencil was to 
him, is my muse te me : and the verses I do myself 
the honour to send you are a memento exactly of th 
same kind that be indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness cf m 
caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, but 1 am so of 
ten tired, disgusted, and hurt, with tlie insipidity, af 
fectation, and pride of mankind, that when I meet vjUI 
a person " after my own heart," 1 positively 'ie 
what an orthodox protestant would call a S|)ec)e3 ol 
idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspiration ; 
and I can no more desist rhyming on the impulse, than 
an Eolian harp can refuse its tones to the streaming 
air. A distich or two would be the consequence, 
though the object which hit m) fancy were gray heaid- 
ed age : but where my theme is youth and beauty, a 
young lady whose personal charms, wit. and ueiiii- 
ment, are equally striking andlinalTected, by heavens I 
though I had Uved threescore years a married man, 
and threescore years before 1 was a married man, ry 
imagination would hallow the very idea ; and I am 
truly sorry that the enclosed stanzas have done such 
poor justice to such a subject. 



No. LXII. 

FROM MR. G. BURNS. 

Mossgiel, \st Jan. 178!> 
DEAR BROTHER, 

I have jnst finished my new-year's-day breakfast in 
the usual form, which naturally makes me call M 



* Here follows the song o( Auld lavgsyne, at 
In the poems. E. 
1 Here followed the song, My Bonnie Mary, 



86 



LETTERS. 



rnind thf* riays of former years, and the society in 
which we iiseJ to begin them : and when I look at our 
(araily vicissitudes, 'thro' the dark postern of time 
long elapsed," I cannot help remarking to you, ray 
dear brollier, how good the God of Seasons is to us, 
and that, however some clouds may seem to lower over 
the portion of time before ua, we have great reason to 
hope tliat all will turn out well. 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert the second, 
join me in the complimenis of the season to you and 
Mrs. Burns, and beg you will remember us in the same 
manner to William, the first lime you see him. 

I am, dear brother, yours, 
GILBERT BURNS. 



No. LXIII. 

TOMRS.DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, New-Year -Day Morning. 

This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes ; and 
Would to God that 1 came under the apostle James's 
description ! — the prayer of a rig/ileousmcm avnileth 
much. In that case, Madam, you should welcome in 
a year full of blessings : every thing that obstructs or 
disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoyment, should be 
removed, and every pleasure that Irail humanity can 
taste should be yours. I own myself so little a presby- 
tcrian, that I approve of set times and seasons of more 
than ordinary acts of devotion, lor breaking in on that 
habituated routine of life and thought which is so apt to 
reduce our existence to a Nkind of instinct, or even 
•iimeiimes, and with some minds, to a state very little 
•uperior to mere machinery. 

This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy blne- 
Bkyed noon, some time about the beginning, and a hoary 
morning and calm sunny day about llie end of autumn ; 
—these, nm out of loind, have been with me a kind of 
holiday. 



1 believe T owe this to that glorious paper in the Spec- 
tator, " The Vision of Mirza ." a piece that struck my 
young fancy before I was capable of fixing an idea to 
a word of three syllables, " On the fifth day of the 
moon, which, according to the custom of my forefa- 
thers, 1 always keep holy, after having washed my- 
self, and otiVred up my morning devotions, I ascended 
the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the 
day in medilatiou and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the sub- 
•tance or structure of our sonls, so cannot account for 
those seeming caprices in them, that one should he 
particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with 
that, which, on minds of a different cast, makes no ex- 
traordinary impression. [ have some favourite flow- 
ers in spring, among which are the mount? in-daisy, 
the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier.rose, the 
budding birch, and the hoary-hawthorn, that 1 view 
and hang over with particular delight. I never heard 
the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer 
noon, o' the wdd mixing cadence of a troop of grty 
plo'ei-in an autumnal morning, without feeling an ele- 
vaii.,n of soul like the enthsiasm of devotion or poetry. 
Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this he owing. 
Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the Eolian 
harp passive, takes the impression of the passing acci- 
dent .' Or do these workings argue something within 
U8 above the trodden clod .i* \ own myself partial to 
•uch proofs of those awful and important realities — a 
God that made all things — man's immaterial and im- 
mortal nature — and a world of weal or wo beyond 
death and the grave. 



No. LXIV. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland. near Dumfries, Ath Jan, ITRS. 
STR, 

As often as I think of writing to you, which has been 
three or four times every week these six months, it 
gives me something so like a look of an ordinary sized 
statue offering at a conversation with the Rhodian col- 
ossus, that ray mind misgives me, and the alTair always 
miscarries somewhere between purpose and resolve. [ 
have, at last, got some business with you, and busi- 
ness-letters are written by the style-book. 1 say my 
business is with you, Sir, for you never had any with 
me, except the business that benevolence has in tlia 
mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet were for 
merly my pleasure, but are now my pride. 1 know that 
a very great deal of my late eclat was owing to ma 
sinsularity of my situation, and the honest prejudice 
of Scotsmen ; but still, as I said in the' preface to my 
first edition, I do look upon myself as having some 
pretensions from Nature to the poetic character. I 
have not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude to learn 
the Muses' trade, is a gift Destowed by Him, " who 
forms the secret bias of the soul ;"— but I as firmly be- 
lieve, that excellence in the profession is the fruit of 
industry, labour, attention, and pains. At least 1 am 
resolved to try my doctrine by the test of experienw. 
Another appearance from the press 1 put off to a very 
distant day, a day that may never arrive — but poesy I 
am determined to prosecute with all my vigour. Na- 
ture has given very few, if any, of the profession, the 
talents of shining in every species of composition. I 
shall try (for until trial it is impossible to know) wheth- 
er she has qualified me to shine in any one. The worst 
of it is, by the time one hag finished a piece, it has been 
so often viewed and reviewed before the mentil eye, 
that one loses, in a good measure, the powers of criti- 
cal discrimination. Here the best criterion I know ig 
a friend — not only of abilities to judge, but with good- 
nature enough, like a prudent teacher with a young 
learner, to praise, perhaps, a little more than is exact- 
ly just, lest the thin-skinned animal fall into that most 
deplorable of all poetic diseases— heart-break^.^g des. 
pondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already immensely 
indebted to your goodness, ask the additional obliga- 
tion of your being that friend to me? I enclose you an 
essay of mine in a walk ot poesy to me entirely new ; 
I mean the epistle addressed to R. G. l-sq, or Robert 
Graham, of Fintry, Esq. a gentleman of uncommon 
worth, to whom I lieunder very greatol ligations. The 
story of the poem, like most of my poems, is connected 
with my own story ; and to give you the one I must 
give you something of the other. I criuiot boast of— 



I believe I shall, in whole, 100^ copy-right included, 
clear about AWL some little odds ; and even part ot 
this depends upon what the gentleman has yet to settle 
with me. I give you this information, because yon did 
me the honour to interest yourself much in my wel 
fare. 



To give the rest of my story in brief, I have married 
" my Jean," and taken a farm: with the first step, f 
have every day more and more reason In be satisfied, 
with the last, it is rather the reverse. 1 have a younger 
brother who supports my aged mother; another sti" 
younger brother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my 
last return from Edinburgh, it cost me about ISOl. to 
save them from ruin. Not that 1 have lost so much — I 
only interposed between my brother and his impend 
ing fate by the loan iif so much. I give myself no airt 
on this, for it was mere selfishness on my part : I wae 
conscious that the wrong scale of the balance was 
pretty heavily charged ; and I thought that throwine a 
little filial piety and fra'ernal affection, into the srale 
in my favour, might help to smooth matters at the 



LETTERS. 



87 



graTtd reckoning. There Is still one thing wo'ild make 
my circumstances quite ettsy : 1 have au exciss-officer's 
commission, and i live in the midst of a country ilivis 
ion. My request- to Mr. Graham, who is one of the 
coinraissioriers of excise, was if in his power, to pro- 
cure me tliat division. If 1 were very sanguine, I 
nii^ht hope that some of ray great patrons might pro- 
cure me a treasury warrant for supervisor, surveyor- 
general, &c. 



Thus secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweet poe- 
try, delightful maid V I would consecrate my future 
days. 



No. LXV. 

TO PROFESSOR D. STEWART. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, ^th Jan. 1789. 
StR, 

The enclosed sealed packet I sent to Edinburgh a 
few days after 1 had the happiness of meeting you in 
Ayrshire, but you were gone for the Continent. ! have 
added a few more of my productions, those for which I 
am indebted to the Nithsdale Muses. The pieces in- 
scribed to R. G. Esq. is a copy of verses I sent Mr. 
Graham, of Pintry, accompanying a request for his 
assistance m a matter, to me, of very great moment. 
To that gentleman I am already doubly indebted, for 
deeds of kindness of serious import to my dearest in- 
terests, done in a manner gi'ateful to the delicate feel- 
ings of sensibility. This poem is a species of composi- 
tioii new to me ; but I do not intend it shall be my last 
essay of the kind, as you will see by the " l^et's Pro- 
gress." Theee fragments, if my design succeeds, are 
but a small part of the intended whole. [ propose it 
shall be the work of ray utmost exertions ripened by 
vears : of course I do not wish it much known. The 
fragment, beginning "A little, upright, tart, pert," 
&c. 1 i.d-e not shown to man living, till now I send it 
you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, the defini 
tion of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be 
pleased in a variety of lights. This particular part I 
send you merely as a sample of my hand at portrait- 
sketching ; but lest idle conjecture should pretend to 
point out the original, please let it be for your single, 
sole inspection. 

Need I make any apology for this trouble to a gen- 
tleman who has treated me with such marked benevo- 
lence and peculiar kindness ; who has entered into my 
interests with so muth zeal, and on whose critical 
decisions I can so fully depend i A poet as I am 
by trade, these decisions to me are of the last conse- 
quence. My late transient acquaintance among some 
of the mere rank and file of greatness, 1 resign with 
ease ; but to the distinguished champions of genius and 
learning, I shall be ever ambitious of being known. 
The native genius and accurate discernment in Mr. 
Stewart's critical strictures ; the justness (iron justice, 
for he has no bowels of compassion for a poor poetic 
sinner) of Dr. Gregory's remarks, and the delicacy of 
Professor Dalzel's taste, 1 shall ever revere. I shall 
be in Edinburgh some time next month, 
i have the honour to be, Sir, 
Your highly oblige- 1, 

And very humble servant, 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. LXVI. 

TO BISHOP GEDDES. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, 3d Feb. 1788. 
VENERABLE FATHER, 

As I am conscious, that wherever I am, you do me 
Ibe honaur to interest yourself in my welfare, it gives 



I me pleasure to infomi yon that I am here at last ata- 
tionary in the serious business of life, and liave now not 
only the retired leisure bul the hearty inclination lo 
attend to those great and inipurtant questions — 
what 1 am.? wliere I am .^ and for what i am de*. 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, there 
was ever butonesideon wliicli I was liHbitually blame- 
able, and there I have secured myself in the way 
pointed out by Nature and Nature's God. 1 was sen- 
sible that, to so helpless a creature as a poor poet, a 
wife and family were encumbrances, which a species 
of prudence would bid him shun; but when the al. 
ternative was, being at eternal warfare with myself, 
on account of habitual follies to give them no worse 
name, which no general example, no licentious wit, no 
sophistical infidelity, would to me. ever justify, 1 must 
have been a fool to have hesitated, and a madman to 
have made another choice. 



In the affair of a livelihood. 1 think myself tolerably 
secure; 1 have good hopes of my farm: but should 
they fail, I have an excise commission, which on my 
simple petition, will at any time procure me oreail. 
There is a certain stigma affixed to the character of 
an excise officer, but I do not intend to borrow honour 
from any profession ; and though the salary be com- 
paratively small, it is great to any thing llia'l (he first 
twenty-five years of my life taught me to expect. 



Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, you 
may easily guess, my reverend and much-honoured 
friend, that my characteristical trade is not forgotten. 
I am, if possible, more than ever an enthusiast to the 
Muses. I am determined to study man, and nature, 
and in that view incessantly ; and to try if the ripen- 
ing and corrections of years can enable me to produce 
something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which T beg your pardon 
for detaining so long, that 1 have been tuning my lyre 
on the banks of Nith. Some large poetic plans that are 
floating in my imagination, or partly put in execution, 
1 shall impart to you when I have the pleasure of meet- 
ing with you : which, if you are then in Edinburgh, I 
shall have about the beginning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which you 
were pleased to honour me, y ■'U must still allow me to 
challenge ; foi with whatever unconcern 1 give up my 
transient connexion with the merely great, I canno* 
lose the patronizing notice of the learned and good, 
without the bitterest regret. 



No. LXVII. 

FROM THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 



SIR, 

If you have lately seen Mrs. Dunlop, of Dnniop, yon 
have certainly heard of the author of the verses which 
accompany this letter. He was a man highly res cl- 
able for every accomplishment and virtue which 
adorns the character of a man or a christian. To a 
great degree of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, 
was added an invincible modesty of temper, which 
prevented in a great degree his figuring in life, and con- 
fined the perfect knowledge of his character and tal- 
ents to a small circle of his chosen fi lends. He was 
untimely taken from us, a few weeks ago, by an in- 
flammatory fever, in the prime of life — beloved by all 
who enjoyed his acquaintance, and lamented by all 
who have any regard for virtue and genius. There i» 
a wo pronounced in Scripture against the person whom 
all men speak well of ; if ever that wo fell npon tha 
head of mortal man, it fell upon him. He has left b»« 



LETTERS. 



Luid him a eonauterable number of compositions, 
cliiefly poetical, autficieiii, I imaginu, lo make a large 
uctiivj volume. In pariicular, two complete and reg- 
ular iraeediea, a farce of three acts, and some smaller 
Vioeins on diUerent subjects. It falls lo my share, who 
iiave lived in the most intimate and uninterrupted 
friendship with him from my youth upwards, to trans 
mit to you the verses he wrote on the |iublicalion of 
your inconiparaLile poems. It is probable they were 
his last, as they were found in his scrutoire, folded up 
with the form of a letter addressed to you, and, I ima- 
gine were only prevented from being sent by himself, 
by that melancholy dispensation which we still be- 
moan. The verses themselves I will not pretend to 
criticise when writing lo a gentleman whom i consider 
as entirely qualified to judge of their merit. They are 
the only verses he seems to have attempted in the Scot- 
tish style : and (hesitate not lo say, in general, that 
they will bring no dishonoui on the Scottish muse ; — 
«nd allow me lo add, that, if it is your opinion ihey 
are not unworthy of the author, and will be oo discre 
dil to you, It is the inclination of Mr. Mylne's friends 
that ihey should be immediately published in some pe 
riodical work, logiveihe world a specimen of what may 
be expected from his performances in the poetic line, 
w-hich, perhaps, will be afterwards published for the 
advantage of his famjiy. 



1 must beg the favour of a letter from you, acknow- 
ledging (he receipt of this ; and lo be allowed lo sub- 
scribe myself, with great regard, 

Sir, your most obedient servant, 

P. CARFRAE. 



No. LXVIil. 

TOMRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisla-id ith March., 1789. 
Herp. am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from 
the capital. To a man who has a home, however 
bumble or remoie — if ihal home is like iiiuie, the scene 
of domestic comfort — '.he bustle of Eduiburgh will soon 
be a business of sickening disgust. 

•' Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hale you." 

When 1 must skulk into a corner, lest the rattline 
equipage of some gaping blockhead should mangle mt 
in the mire, 1 am tempted lo exclaim — " What merits 
h:ii he had, or what demerit have I had, in joiiie state 
of pre existence, that he is ushered into this stale of 
being With the sceptre of rule, an<l the key of riches in 
his piinv fist, and I am kicked into the world, the sport 
of folly, or the victim of pride.'"' 1 have read some- 
where of a monarch (in Spain I think it was,) who was 
so out of humour wiih the tlolemean system of astron- 
omy, that he said, had he been of the Creator's coun- 
cil, he could have saved him a great deal of labour and 
aiisurdity. 1 will not defend this blasphemous speech ; 
but often, as 1 have glided with humble stealth through 
the pomp of I rince's street, it has suggested itself to 
me, as an improvement on the present human figure, 
that a man, in proportion to his own conceit of his 
consequence in ihe world, could have pushed out the 
looiitode of his common size, as a simil pushes nut 
his horn?, or as we draw out a perspective. This tri 
fling alternation, not lo mention the prodi;io'i6 saving 
It would be ill the tear and wear of the ne:k and limh- 
siiiews of many of his majesty's liege subjpcts, in the 
Way of tossing the head and tiploe-^triittine, would 
.evidently turn out a vast advantage, in enabling iis at 
once to adjust the ceremonials in making a bow, or 
Wakins way to a gieal m.\n, and that too within a se- 
coiid of the precise spherical aii^le of reverence, or an 
inch of the particular point of respectful distance, 
which the important creature itself requires; as a 
lueasurinssiance ai its towering altitude would deter- 
mine the ad'air like instmcU 



Your are right, Madan., inyourideaoftiOorMylne • 
poem, which he has adiiresscd tu me. 'Ihe piece ha* 
a good deal of merit, but it has one great fault — it is, 
by far, too long. Besides, my success has encouraged 
such a shoal of ill-spawned inonelers to crawl ii lo pub- 
lic notice, uiidei the title of Scottish i oels, liial the 
very term Scottish i oely borders on the burlesque.— 
When I write lo Mr. Carfi ae, I shall advise him rath- 
er lo try one of his deceased friends Lngliah pieces. 
I am prodigiously hurried with my own matlera, else 
! would have requested a perusal of all Mylne's poetic 
performances ; and would have offered his Iriends my 
assistance in either selecting or correcting what would 
be proper for the press. VV hai it is that occupies nie 
sg much, and perhaps a little oppresses my present 
spirits, shall fill up a paragraph in some future letter. 
In the mean lime, allow me lo close ihis epistle witii a 
few lines done by a friend of mine • " ' *. I give you 
them, that, as you have seen the original, you may 
guess whether one or two alterations I have ventured 
to make in them, be any real improvement. 

Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws, 
Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause. 
Be all a molher's fondest hope can dream, 
And ail you are, my charming **", seem. 
Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maiden-hlu.'ihing hawthorn blows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, 
Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 
Your manners shall so true your soul express. 
That all shall long to know the worth lliey guess j 
Congenial hearts shall gi-eet with kindred love. 
And evensick'ning envy must approve.* 



No. LXIK. 

TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

1789. 
REVEREND SIR, 

I do not recollec: that I have ever fell a severer panj 
of shame, than on looking at the date of your obliging 
letter which accompanied Mr. Mylne's poem. 



I am much to blame : the honour Mr. My'.ne has 
done me, greatly enhanced in its value by the en- 
dearing though ineluiuholy circumslance of' its being 
the last production of his muse, deserved a belter re- 
turn. 

I have, as you hint, thotieht of sending a copjr of tl.e 
poem to seme periodical publioalioii ; but, on second 
thought*, I am afraid that, in the jircsenl case, it would 
be an imjiroper step. My success, perhaps as much 
accidental as merited, has brought an innndaliun of 
nonseiiHe, under the name of Scottish poetry. Sub- 
scription bills for Scottish poems have so dunned, and 
daily do dun, the public, that the very name is in dnn 
ger of contempt. For these reasons, ii piililishiiig anv 
of Mi. Mylne's poems in a magazine, &c. be at all 
prudent, in my opinion, it certainly should nut be a 
Scoitish poem. The profits of ihe labours of a man of 
genius are, I hope, aa honourahle as any profits what 
ever; and Mr. Mylne's relation!) are most justly en- 
titled to ihat honest harvest which fate has denied him- 
self to reap. Bill let the friends of Mr Mylne « fonie 
(among whom 1 crave the honour of raiiking myself) 
always keep in eye hio respectability as a innn and as 
a poet, and lake no measure thai, before the world 
knows any thing about him, would risk his name 
and character being classed with ihe fools of the 
times, 

* These beautiful lines, we have reason to believe, 
are the prodiictioiiof the 'ady lo whom Uu«i«ileri*Mt 
dressed. £, 



LETTERS. 



I hkve. Sir, some experience of piibUihiiig, and the 
way in which 1 would proceed with Mr. Myliie's 
poems ia this : I would publish in two or three English 
and Scottish public [lapers, any one of his Knglish 
poems which should, by private Judges, bethought the 
most excellent, and mention it, at trie same time, as 
one of the productions of a Lothian farmer, of lespect- 
able charactt-r, lately deceased, whose poems his 
friends liad it an idea to publish soon, by suDscription, 
lor the sake of his numerous family: — not in pity to 
that family, but in justice to what his friends think 
the poetic merits of the deceased ; and to secuie, in 
the most eSeclual manner, to those tender connex- 
ions, whose right ills, the pecuniary reward of those 
merits. 



No. LXX. 

rO DR. MOORE, 



SIR, 



Ellisland, 23d March, 1789. 



'he gentlman who will deliver you this is a Mr. 
Nielson, a worthy clergyman in my neighbourhooa, 
and a very particular acquaintance of muie. As I 
Imve troubled him with this packet. I must turn him 
over to your goodness, to recompense hiin for it in a 
w,iy in which he much needs your assistance, and 
wliere you can effectually serve him ; — Mr. Nielson is 
ou his way for France, to wait on his Grace of tiueens- 
btrry, on some little business of a good deal ot import- 
ance to him, ai'd he wishes for your instructions re- 
BpKCting the most eligible mode of travelhng, &c. for 
him, when he has crossed the channel. I should not 
have dared to take this liberty with you, but that 1 am 
liild, by those who have the honour of your personal 
acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman, is 
a letter of recommendation to you, and that to have it 
in your power to serve such a character gives me much 
pleasure. 



The enclosed ode is a compliment to the memory of 

the late Mrs.*"**, of ". You, probably, 

knew her personally, an honour of which I cannot 
H'ast; but I spent my early years in her neighbour- 
hiiod, and among her servants and tenants, 1 know 
tnal she was detested with the must heartfelt cordiali- 
ty. However, in the particular part of her conduct 
which roused my poetie wrath, she was much less 
blameal)le. In January last, on my road to Ayrshire, 
1 had put up at Bailie Whigham's in Sanquhar, the 
only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, 
and the grim evening and howhng wind were ushering 
XI a night of snow and drift. My horse and 1 were 
both so much fatigued with the labours of the day ; and 
just as my friend the Bailie and 1 were bidding defiance 
to the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels iiie fu- 
neral pageantry of the great Mrs. •*•**, and poor i 
am forced to brave all the horrors of the tempestuous 
night, and jade my horse, my young favourite horse, 
whom 1 had just christened i egasus, twelve miles far- 
ther on, through the wildest mours and hills of Ayr- 
sliire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The powers of 
poesy and prose sink under me, when I would describe 
what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire at 
New Cumnock, had so far recovered my frozen sinews, 
I sal down and wrote the enclosed ode.* 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with 
Mr. Creech ; and I must own, that at last, he has 
beeu amicable and fair with me. 



No. LXXI. 

TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, id April, 1789. 
I will make no excuses, my dear Bibliopulus, (Qod 

• Tne ode encloted it that printed in Poems, p. 



foreive me for murdering language,) that I ^ave sat 
down to write you on this vile paper. 



It is economy. Sir ; it is that rardinal virtue, pwi- 
deuce ; so I bee you will sit down, and either compo»e 
borrow a panegyric. If you are going to borrow, 
apply to 



to compose, or rather to compound something very 
clever on ray remarkable frugality ; that 1 write to one 
of my most esteemed friends on this wretched paper, 
which was originally intended for the venal fist ut 
some drunken exciseman, to take dirty notes in a 
miserable vault of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ' thou mother of ten thousand blessiiie* 
— thou cook of fat beef and dainty greens— thou nianu- 
faciurer of warm Shetland hose, and comfortable siir- 
touts ! — thou old housewife, darning thy d«caytd 
stockings with thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ! 
— lead me, hand me, in thy clutching, palsied fist, up 
those heights, and through those thickets, hitherto in- 
accessible, and impervious to my anxious, weary feei ; 
— not those i aruassiau crags, bleak and barren, where 
the hungry worshippers of fame are breathless, clam- 
bering, hanging between heaven and hell ; but lliiise 
glitteriiia cliffs of >otiisi, where the all-sufficient, ail- 
powerful deity, holds his immediate court of joys and 
pleasures; wliere the sunny exposure of plenty, and 
the hot walls of prolusion, produce those blissful Iriiili 
of luxury, exotics in this world, and natives of ; ara- 
dise ' — Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, ush- 
er me into the refulgent, adored presence I— The pow- 
er, splendid and potent as he now is, was once the pu- 
ling nursling of thy faithful care and tender arms : Call 
me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or favourite, 
and abjure the god, liy the s'cenes of his infant years, 
no longer to repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but 
to favour me with his peculiar countenance and pro- 
tection ! He daily bestows his greatest kindnesses on 
the undeserving and the worthless—assure him that I 
bring ample documents of meritorious demerits ! 
Pledge yourself for me, that for the glorious cause of 
Lucre, I will do any thing— be any thing— bnt the 
horse- leech of private oppression, or the vulture of 
public robbery ! 



But to descend from heroics. 



I want a Shakspeare ; 1 want likewise an English 
Dictionary--Jolinson's I suppose is best. In these and 
all my prose commissions, the cheapest is always the 
best for me. There is a small debt of honour that I 
owe Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in Saughtou Mills, iny 
worthy friend, and your well wisher. I lease give 
him, and urge him to take it, the first time you see 
him, ten shillings worth of any thing you havetosell, 
and place it to my account. 

The library scheme that 1 mentioned to you is al- 
ready begun, under the direction of Captain Riddel. 
There is another in emulation of it going on at Close- 
burn, under the auspices ot Mr, Monteilli of Close- 
burn, which will be on a greater scale than ours. 
Capt. R. gave bis infant society a great many of his 
old books, else 1 had written you on that subject ; buv 
one of these days, I shall trouble you with a communi- 
cation for the Monkland Friendly Society ;" — a copf 
ot The Spectator, Mirror, and Lounger; Man ot 
Feeling, Man of the World, Guthrie's GeograpKi. 



When I grow richer T wlH write to you on gilt poe., 
to make amends for this sheet. At present eva.-jr 
guinea has a five guinea errand with. 
My dear Sir, 
Your faithful, poor, but honest friend. 

R B. 



LETTERS. 



No. LXXII. 

TO MRS. DU.NL.Ox. 

EUisla'id, itk April, 1789. 
I no 8!;oner hit on any poeiic jilau nr lancy, l)iit I 
Wisli III seni it to you : ami (I Uiiowin!; and reaiiii.g 
tbase eive tia'it the p!e;iiiire to you, tiiai cuiniimuica- 
tiiig tlie^.i IJ you givcd ij me, 1 am satisiieii. 



I have a poetic wliimiii my head, which I at present 
deiiioaie, or raii'er iiisciibe, ti) ilie Right Hoii.CJ-. 
Fox : but how long that fancy miy hold, ] cannot say. 
A lew ut'ihetirgi iines 1 have just rough-akciched. as 
follows." 



On the 20lh current T hope to have the honour of oa- 
furing yuu, iii person, how sincerely I am — 



No. LXXIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

EUitland, ilh May, 1789. 
MY DEARSfR, 

Your duly-free favour of the 23th April I received 
two days a!;u ; I will not say 1 perused it with plea- 

• uie ; tlia! i3 the cold compliment nf cer-emony ; I pe- 
rused it, Sir, Willi delicious aa'.isfactioii — in short, it is 
•ucli a letter, that not you uOr your friend, but the le- 
gislature, by express proviso in their postage-laws, 

• liould frank. A le'.ler informed with the soul of 
friendship is such an honour to human nature, that 
Ihey should order It free ingress and egress to and from 
thrir bags and mails, as an encuurageoieat auct mark 
of dutinciion to supfremineiii virtue. 

1 have jiiiit put the last hand to a little poem which I 
think will be something to your taste, due morning 
lately as I was out pretty early in the fiekU sowing 
•oine £;rass seeds, I hearil the burst of a shot Irom a 
neighbouring planlaiion, and presently a nnor little 
wounded hare came crippling by me. You will guess 
my indienation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot 
a hare at this season, when they all of them have young 
ones. Indeeil there is sumeihmg in that business of 
desirnying, for our upon, individuals in the animal 
creation that do not injure us raati-rinlly, which 1 
could never reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 



On seeing a Felloie wound a Hare toilk a Shot, April 
1789. 
Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rousart, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : 
May never pity sioth thee with a sigh, 
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes or verdant plains, 

To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form, 
That wonted form, alas I thy dying bed, 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head. 

The cold earth with thy blood-stained bosom 
warm. 

• Here was copied th» i't^gment Inscribed to C. J. 
f Oi. See Poems, p. 81. 



Perhaps a mother's augtjnh adds its w« ; 
The playful pair crowd fondly by thy sido j 
Ah ! helpless nurslings, who will now prorkM 

That life a mother only can bestow. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerfui dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thf 
hapless fate. 

Let me knew how yon like my poem. I am donbtful 
whether it would not be an improvement to keep out 
the labl stanza but one altogether. 

C is a glorious production of the Author of 

man. You, he, and the noble Colonel of the C 
F are to me 

" Dear at the ruddy drops which warm my breast." 

I have a good mind to make verses on you all, to th« 
tune of " Three guid fellows ayont the el<M." 



No. LXXIV. 

The poem in the preceding letter had also been sent by 
our Bard to Dr. Gregory for his criticism. The fol- 
lowing is that gentleman's reply. 

FROM DR. GREGORY. 

Edinburgh, 2d Jans. 1789. 
DEAR SIR, 

I take the first leisure hour T could fnmmaiid, to 
thank yon for y'lur letter, and the copy of verses en- 
closed in it. As there is real poetic merit, I mean both 
fancy and tenderness, and some happy eipressions in 
them, I think they welliieserve that you should revise 
them carefully anil polish them to tiie utmost. This 1 
am Riire you can do if you please, f.ir you have great 
command both of expressmi and of rhymes : and vmu 
may judge from the two last pieces of Mrs. Hunter's 
poetry that I gave you, how much correctness and high 
polish enhance the value of such composiiinns. As you 
desire it, I shall, with great freedom, give you mv 
moit ri^oro IS criticisms on your verses. I wi$h you 
would give me anntiier ediiion of them, much ameiiried, 
and I will send it to Mrs. Hunter, who I am siir? will 
have much pleasure in reading it. Pray give me lik« 
wise for myself, and her too, a copy (as much amend- 
ed as you please) of the Water Fotol on Ljch T..rit. 

The Wnunded Hcire is a pretty good subject ; but 
the measure or staiiy.a yon have chosen for !l, u not a 
good one ; it does notyioui well : and the rhyme of the 
fourth line is almost lost by its distance from the first, 
and the two interposed, close rhymes. If 1 were you, 
I would put it into a dilferent stanza yet. 

Stanza 1. The execrations in the first two lines 
are too strong or coarse ; hut they may pass. " Mnr. 
der-aiming is a bad compound epithet, and not very 
intelligible. " Blood-stained," in stanza iii. line 4. 
has the same fault : Bledi'ig bosom is iiifiniiely bet- 
ter. You have accustomed yourself to such epithets, 
and have no notion how sbilf and quaint ihey nppeur 
to others, and how incongruous wilh poetic fancy a-id 
tender sentiments. .Suppose l^pe had written, " Whv 
that hlood-slained bosom gored," how would you hava 
liked it .'' Form is neither a poetic, nor a dignified, 
nor a plain common word : 't is a mere sportsman's 
word ; unsuitable to pathetic or serious poetry. 

" Mangled" is a coarse word. " Innocent," in thli 
sense, is a nursery word, but ooth may pass. 

Stanza 4. " Who will now provide that life a mnl'a- 
eronly can bestow.'" will not do at all : it is not 
grammar — it is net intelligibi*. Do yotj mean, " pro 



LETTERS. 



91 



riae for that life which the mother had be«towed anJ 
u«ed 10 provide for ?" 

There was-a ridiciiloii? Slip of the pen, "Feeling" 
(i fit;i|ic)se) for " Fellow," in the title of yonr copy of 
Verses; l>ut even fellow would he wiong ; it is l*nl 
eolliiquial and viilgKr word, unsuitable to your seni 
mciiis. " iSliot" is improper too. (1n seeinsaperA-o/i 
(or a s|,orlsinKn) wound a hare ; it is needless to add 
will-i what Weapon ; but if you think otiierwise, you 
•houideay, with, afottling piece. 

Let me iec you when yoi; come to town, and I will 
•how you some more of Mrs. Burner's poems.* 



No. LXXV. 



TO AIR.M'AULEY, OP DUMBARTON. 

4tfi June, 1789. 
DEAR SIR, 

Tliough I am not without my fears respecting my 
fate, at tliat grand, universal inquest of right and 
Wrong, coniraoidy called T/ie Last Day, yet 1 trust 
there is one sin, which that arch vagabond, Satan, 
who I understand is to be king's evidence, cannot 
throw in my teeth, I mean insiatitiide. There is a 
certain [netly large qiianfiin of kindness, forwt-=ch I 
remain, and from inability, I fear must still remain, 
your deb:or ; but, though unable to rejiay the debt, I 
assure you. Sir, I slian ever warndy remember ihe ob- 
ligation, llgives me the sincerest pleasiirs to hear, by 
my old acqnaiiuance, Mr. Kennedy, tliat you are, in 
immortal Allan's language. "Hale and weel, and liv- 
ing;" and that your charming family ate well, and 
promising to be an amiable and respectable addition to 
the company of performers, whom the great Manager 
of the drama of Mau is bringing into atiiou for ike 
succeeding age. 

With refpect to my welfare, a subject in which you 
once warmly and eft'eclively inieresied yourself, I «m 
here in my oid way, holding my plough, marking the 
(jrowih of my corn, or the liealih of my dairy ; and at 
times sauntering by the delightful windings of the 
i^ith, on (lie margin of which 1 have built my humble 
domicile, praying for seaeonable weather, or holding 
an intrigue wi'tli the muses, tlie only gipsies with whimi 
J have now any intercourse. As I am entered into the 
holy state of matrimony, I trust my face is turned coin- 
jjlettly Zioii ward ; and as it is a rule wiih all honest 
lellows to repeat no grievances, 1 ho[)e that the little 
poetic licenses of former days will of course fall under 
the oblivious influence of soiiie good-natured statute of 
Celestial proscription. In my family devotion, which 
like a good presbyierian, I occasiogally give to my 
houseliold folks, 1 am extremely font! of the psalms, 
" Let not the errors of my youth," 4c. and that other," 
*' Lo, children are Cod's heritage'" &c. ; in which last, 
Mri. Burns, who, by the by, has a glorious " wood- 
note wild" at either old song or psalmody, joins me 
With the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 



• It must be admitted, that this criticism is not more 
distinguished by its good sense, than by its freedom 
from ceremony. It is impossible not to smile at the 
manner in which the jioel may be supposed to have re- 
ceived it. Ill fact, it appears, as the sailors say, to 
have thrown him juile aback. In a letter which he 

wrote soon after, he says, " Dr. G is a good 

man. but he criicifiea me." — And again, " 1 believe in 

the iron Justice of Dr. G ;" but, like the devils, " I 

belieTe and tremble." However, he profited by these 
cntielim*, as the reader will find by comparing the 
fint edition of this piece with tliat published in p. 69 
•^ tia* fo»m». 



No. LXXVI. 

TO MR^. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Z\tt June, 1789. 

dkar madam. 

Will you take the efTusions, the miserahV elTusion*. 
of low spirits, just as they flow from their bitter spring / 
I know not ol any particular cause for this worst of all 
my foes beseiiing me, but for some time my soul has 
been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of evil 
imaginations and gloomy presages. 



Monday Evening. 
I have Just heard • • • • give a sermon. He 
is a man famous for his benevolence, and 1 revere 
him ; but from such ideas of my Creator, good Lord, 
delives me .•■ Religion, my honoured friend, is surely 
a simple business, as it equally concerns the ignorant 
and the learned, the poor and the rich. That there is 
an incomprehensibly Great Being, to whom I owe my 
existence, and tliat he must be intimalely acqaainied 
with the operations and progress of the iiiterual ma- 
chinery, and consequent outward deportment of this 
creature which i think he ban made ; these are, I think, 
selfevirlent iiroposilions. That there is a real and 
eternal distinction between virtue and vice, and ciiii- 
sequently, that I am an accountable creature ; that 
from the seeming nature of Ihe human mind, as well ns 
from the evident imperlVclion, nay, positive injustice, 
in the admiiiistiation of art"airs, boili in the natural and 
moral worlds, there must be a relributive scene of ex- 
isience beyond the grave— must, I think, be allowed by 
every one who wilfgive himseif a nioinem'ii reflection. 
I will go farther, niiil aflirm, that from the sublimity, 
excellence and purity, of his doctrine and piecepis, 
unparalleled by all the aggregated wisdtm and learn- 
ing of many preceding aae», though, to nppearnnce,i\a 
himself was the obscurest, and most illiterate uf our 
specie* ; therelore Jesua Christ was from God. 



Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases thehap- 
pine.^8 of others, this is my criterion of goodness ; anrf 
whatever injures society at large, or any individual it 
it, this is my measure of iniquity. 

What think you. Madam, of my creed .' I trust ihstJ 
I have said nothing that will lessen me in the eye a 
one whose good opionion I value almost next lo thi: a{^ 
probation of my own mind. 



No. LXVII. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford-street, lOih Jane, 1789. 
DEAR SIR, 

I thank you forthe different communical'.ons you have 
made me of your occasional productions in manuscript, 
alt of which have merit, an(l some of them merit of a 
different kind from what appears in the poems you 
have published. Yon ought carefully lo pieserve all 
your occasional productions, to correct and improve 
them at your leisure ; and when you can select aa many 
of tliese as will make a volume, publish it either at Ka- 
inburgh or London, by subscription ; on such an occa- 
sion, it may be in my power, as it is veiy much my in- 
clination, to be ofservicelo you. 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, that, in 
your future productions, yon should abandon the Stit- 
tish stanza and dialect, and adopt ihe measure (ud 
language of modern English peetry. 

The stanza which you use in imitatii « of Chriit 
kirk On the Green, with the tiresome •■epjtiiion it 
'• that day," U fatiguing to Kncn'sh enrvi-and J shublf 
Wrink not very agreeable v.i Sc»iiisli. 



92 



LETTERS. 



Ail the line aatfre mnd homoiir of your Holy Fair is 
}o-t oil the iCiiglish ; yet, without more trouble to your- 
ielf, you could have conveyed the whole of them. The 
lame is true of your other poems. In your Epistle to 

J . o'. , the siaiizds, from that begiiiiiint! with this 

line, " I'liis lite, so far's I uiulerslaiul," to that which 
ends with — " Sh»rt while it grieves," ate easy, tluw- 
iiiiTi sayly I'hilusophical, ami of rluratiaii elegance 
— the Uiigiiage is English, with a/eio Scottish words, 
and some of those soharmonio-.is as to add to the beau- 
tv ; for what puel would not prefer gloaming to Iwi 

iia^t I 

I imagine, that by careful keeping, and occasionally 
pjlishiiig and correcting those verses, which the Muse 
dictates, you will, within a year or two, have another 
Volume as large as the first, ready for tlie press : and 
this without diverting yon from every proper atten- 
tion to the study and practice of husbandry, in winch 
1 understand you are very learned, and which 1 fancy 
yon will choose to adhere to as a wife, while poetry 
amnsea yon from time to time as a mistress. The 
former, like a prudent wife, must not show ill 
mour, although you retain a sneaking kiiiihiess to 
tins agreeable gipsy, and pay her occasional visits, 
which in no manner alienates your heart from your 
lau'fiii spouse, but lends on the cou.rary, topioinoie 
her inleiesl. 

I desired Mr. Cadell to write to Mr. Creech to send 
you a copy of Zel.co. This perlorm><nce has had 
great success heie; but 1 shall be glad to have your 
opinHiii ot it, because I va!iie your opinion, and be- 
cause 1 know yuur are above saying what you do not 
think. 

I beg yon will ofter my best wishes to my very 
food IViend, Mrs. Hamilton, who I understand is 
your neiahboiir. If she is as^happy as I wish her, 
(he ')• happy enough. Make my coniplimenis also 
to M<-s. Uuriic: auii believe me to be, with sincere 
esteem, 

Dear Sir, your», &c. 



No. LXXVIII. 

PROM MISS J. LITTLE. 



SIR. 



Loudon House, \2th July, 1739. 



Though 1 have not the happiness of being personally 
acquainted with you, yet, um.iiigst the number of those 
w lO have read and admired your publications, may I 
be permitted to trouble you with this. Von must kiiiiw, 
S.r, 1 am somewhat in love with the Muses, though I 
cannot boast of any favours they have deigned IJ con- 
fer upon me as yet ; my situation in life has been /ery 
nincli azainst me as to that. 1 have spent some year's 
in aii<l about Kccelefechan (where my parmls reside,) 
in the slation of a servant, and am ii iw come to Lou- 
don House, at present uossessed by M-s. U . she 

is daughter of Mrs Dunlop of Dniilop, whom I uiider- 
staiid you are particularly acquaii^ed with. .-8 I had 
the pleasure of perusing your jioems, I fell a partiality 
for the author, which I sliooM not have experienced 
had yon been in a more dignified station. I wrote a 
few verses of address to you which I did not then think 
of ever presenting; but as lui tune seems to have fa- 
"oured me in this, by bringing me into a family, by 
wliom you are as well known and much esteemed, anil 
where perhaps I may have an opportuiiily of teeing 
yoi-, I shall, in hopes of your future frieudihip, lake 
'.he iiberiy to transcribe ihem. 



Fair fa' the honest rustic swain 
The pride o' a' our Scottish plain, 
'i'huJgie's us joy to hear thy ktrain, 

And notes sae sweet •' 
Old Ranuajr's shade reviv'd again 

la tbes we grsel. 



LoT'd Thalia, that delightful muM 
Seem'd lang shut up as a reciu«e ; 
Toall she did heraid refuse, 

Since Allan's day ; 
Till Burns arose, then did she chust 

To grace his lay. 

To hear thy sang all ranks desirs, 
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre J 
Apollo with poetic fire 

Thy breast does warm i 
And critics silently admire 

Thy art to charm. 

Casar and Lnath weel can speak, 
'Tis pity e'er their gabs should sleek 
But iulo human nature keek, 

And knots unravel : 
To hear their lectures once a week, 

Nine miles I'd travel. 

The dedication to G. H. 

An unco bonnie homespun speech, 

Wf winsome glee the heart can teach 

A bei:er lespon. 
Than servile bards, who fawn and fleeA 

Like beggar's messon. 

When slighted love becomes your theme, 
And women's faithless vows you blame ; 
With so much jiathos you exclaim. 

In your Lament ; 
Bulglanc'd by the must frigid damCf 

She would relent. 

The daisy too, ye sing wi' sklU ; 
And weel ye praise the whisky gill ; 
In vain I blunt my feckless quill. 

Your fame to raise; 
While echo sounds from ilka hill, 

Tu Burns's praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear, 

Or Sam, liat critic most severe, 

A plougliboy sing with '.hroal sae clear 

They, in a rage. 
Their works would a' in pieces tear, 

And curse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint, 
The beauties of your verse to painl ; 
My rude uupolish'd strokes but taint 

Their l:rilliancy ; 
Th' attempt would dou'itless vex a saint* 

And werl may ihee. 

The task I'll drop— with heart sincere 
To Heaven present my humble pray'r, 
That all the blessings mortals share, 

Alay be by turns 
DispeiM'd by an indulgent care. 

To Robert Burns I 



Sir, T hope you will pardon my boldness in this, my 
hand trembles while I write to you, conscious of my 
unworthiiiess of what I would most earnesily solicit, 
viz. your favour and friendship ; yet hoping you wiO 
•bow Touraalf potteised of a* much geuerotltr aa4 



LETTERS. 



05 



food nature ai will prerent your exposing what may 
Juftty be touiid liable to censiire in this measure, 1 
•haU take the liberty to subscribe myself, 
Sir, 

Your most obedient, humble servant, 

jankt little. 

P. S If you would condescend to honour me with a 
few lines from yuiir hand, I would take it as a particu- 
lar favour ; and direct to me at Luuduu House, near 
GnLslon. 



No. LXXIX. 



FROM MR. 

London, 5th August, 1789. 
MY DKAR SIR, 

Kxciise me when 1 say, that the uncommon abilities 
wliich you possess most render your correspondence 
Veiy acceptable to any one. l ca-i assure you I am 
parlicidai-|y prouil of yoin- partiality, and shall endea- 
vour, by every metlied in my power to inerilacoutiuu- 
auce of your politeness. 



When you can spare a few moments, I should he 
proud of a letter from yoo, directed to me, Gerard- 
•treel, Sobo. 



I cannot express my happiness sufficiently at the 
instance of ytnir attachment to my late iriesliniahle 
friend, Bob' Ferensson," who was particularly inti- 
mal*: with myself and relations. While 1 recollect 
with pleasure his extraordinary talents, a:;d many 
amiable qualities, it aflurds me trie gieatest consola- 
tion that I am honoured with the correspondence of 
his successor in the national simplicity of his genius. 
That Mr. liorns has refined it in ihe art of poetry, 
most readily be admitted ; but uotwithstandinj: many 
avourable '-epreseniaiions, I am yelto learu that he 
inherits his convivial powers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, such a 
plentitnde ot lancy and aitractioii in Inm, that when 
1 call the happy period of our iniercourse lo my memo- 
ry, I feel uiystir in a siate of delirium. 1 was then 
youngfrilimi him Liy eigbt or ten year.-, but his manner 
was so felicitous, that he enraptured every person a- 
romid him, and infused into (lie hearts of the young 
and (he old the spirit and animation which operated 
ou his own mind. 

I am, Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXX. 

TO Mr. •*••. 

In answer to the foregoing. 

MY DKAR SIR, 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular season, 
and Ihe indolence of a poet at all li:ni:'S and seasons, 
will, 1 hope, plead my excuse tor nealertina so long lo 
answer your obiigio;; letter ot (he 5lh of August. 

That you have done well in quilling your laborious 
concern in*'"' I ilo not doubt : the Ai-ighiy reasons 
you metilion were, I hope, vrry, de.serveilly, iudi-ed, 
weigliiy ones, and your l:ealtli is a uiaKer i.f (he las( 
impoiiante : bolwhelhcr (lie reuiai:iiiiK pioprielois of 
the paper have also done well, is what I much doubt. 
The *'*', so far as 1 was a reader, exhibited such a 
brilliancy of point, such an elegance of paragraph, 

• The erection of a monument to him. 



and such a variety of fnlellgence, that I can hardly 
conceive it possible to conliniie a daily paper in the 
same degree of excellence; but, if there was a man 
who had abilities equal lo iSe task, that man's assisl- 
ance the proprietors have lost. 



When I received your letter, I was transcribinp for 
***', my letter (o the magistrates of the Canon^al*, 
Edinburgh, beeging their permission to place a tomb- 
stone over poor Fergusson, and tlieir edict, in conse- 
quence of my petition, but now I shall senrl tliem to 
* * * ' I oor Fergusson 1 If there be a lile be- 
yond the grave, which I trust there is ; and if there be 
a good Ood presiding over all nature which I am 
sure there is, thou art now enjoying existence in 
a glorious world, where worth of the heart 
alone is distinction in the man; where riches, depri- 
ved of all their [ileasure purchasing powers, return to 
their native sordid matter : where titles and honour 
are the disregarded reveries of an idle dream ; and 
where that heavy virtue, which is the negative conse- 
quence of sti.ady dullness, and those thoughtless, 
though often destructive lollies, which are the nnavoid. 
able aberrations of frail liMiiian nature, will be thrown 
into equal oblivion as if they had never been. 

Adieu, my dear Sir! so soon as your iircsent views 
and schemes are concentrated in an aim, I shall be 
glad to hear trom you ; as your welfare and happiness 
is by no means a subject in'dififereut 

Yours, &c. 



No. LXXXI. 

TO MISS WILLIAMS. 

1789. 
MADAM, 

Of the many problems in the nature of that wonder 
ful creature, Man, that is one of the most extraordina- 
ry, that he shall go.on from day to day, from week to 
week, or month to month, or perhaps from year to 
year, suffering a hundred times more in an hour from 
the impotent consequences of neglecting what we ought 
to do, than the very doing of it would cost him. I am 
dee|)ly indebted (o you, first Irom a most elegant poe- 
tic compliment ;* then for a pelite obliging letter ; and 
lastly, for your excellent iiocm on the Slave-trade ; 
and yet, wretch that I am! though the debts were 
debts ol honour, and (he creditor a lady, 1 have put nfT, 
and put oil", even the very acknowledgment of the obli- 
gation, Until you must indeed be the very angel 1 take 
you for, if you can Ibigive me. 

Your poem T have read with the highest pleasure. T 
have a way, whenever I read a book, 1 mean a book in 
our own trade, Madam, a poetic one, and when it is 
my own jiroperly, that I take a pencil and mark at 
the ends of verses, or note on margins and odd paper, 
little criticisms ol apyirobation or disapprohalion as [ 
peruse along. I will make no ajiology for ju e.^entin^ 
you with a few unconneiMed thoughts that occuned to 
me in my repeated perusals of your jioein. I want to 
show yoo that I have hoiiest>' enough to tell you what I 
take to be i ruths, even when llu v aie not quite in ilie 
side of approh:.iion : an.l I do it n. the firm (aiih, that 
you have equal greatness of mind to htar them with 
pleasure. 

I had lately the honour of a letter from T)r. Moore, 
where lie tells me that he has sent me some books, 
Thev are not yet come to hand, but 1 hear they are en 
the way. 

Wishing yot: ail success in your progress in the path 
of lame ; and that you may equally esrnie the dan 
ger of slumbliog through iiiiauiiouE speed, or iosicf 
ground through loitering neglect. 

I have the honour to be, &c. 

•See Miss Smith's Sonnet, page 101. — nota. 



94 



LETTERS. 



No. Lxxxn. 

FROM MISS WILLIAMS. 

llh August, 1789. 
DEAR SIR, 

I i!o not lose a moment in returning yon my sincere 
ackiiuwleilgmenls lor your letler, and your cricici^ 
on my poem, which is a very tiaUcring piool' lljai y 
have read il with attention. 1 think your ohjectioiis 
ar jjerl'ecliy just, except in one instance. 



You have indeed been very profuse of panegyric on 
my little pciformance. A much lees poiiion of ap- 
plause trom you would have been ^raiilynig to me ; 
■ince I think its value depends entirely upon the source 
from whence it proceeds — the incense of praise, like 
other incense, is more grateful from the quality than 
the quantity of the odour. 

I hope you still cultivate the pleasurei of poetry, 
which are precious, even Independent of the rewards 
of lame. I eriiaps the most valuable property of po- 
etry IS its power of disengaging the mind trom world- 
ly cares, and leading the iniagination to the richest 
springs of intellectual enjoyment; since, however fre- 
quently lite may he chequered with gloomy scenes, 
thoa« who truly love the Muse can always hnd one lit- 
tle path adorned with flow< 



cheered by sun- 



No. LXXXIII. 

TO MRS. DIInLOP. 

Ellisland, 6th Sept. 1789. 
DEARMADAlvl, 

1 have mentioned, in my last, my appointment tothe 
Excise, and the birth of little Frank, who, by the by, 
I tinst will be no discredit to '.lie honourable name of 
WaNace, as he has a tine manly countenance, and a 
figure that ml<;ht docrtdii to a liiile fellow two months 
ohlcr ; and likewise an excellent good teni|'er, though, 
when he iveases. he hits a \>i\>e, only iiol quite so loud 
as the horn iiial hi« ::nmorial namesake blew as a sig- 
ual to la.te uui the pin of Stirling bridge. 

I hsil sime lime ago an epistle, part poetic, and 
part proja'c, fronr. your poetess, Mrs. J. Little, a very 
lii!!eiiious Lut Modest composition. I should have 
written her, aashe requested, but for the hurry of tins 
new business. I have heard of her and her composi- 
tions in this country ; and I am happy to add, always 
to the honour of her character. The fact is, I know 
not well how to write to her : I should sit down to a 
»heet of paper that I knew not how to stain. I am no 
dab at finc;-drawii letter-writing ; and except when 
lirompteil by triendship or gratitude, or, which hap- 
pens extremely rarely, inapired by the Muse <l know 
uot her name) that presides over ei)i«tolary writing, I 
■it down, when necessitated to write, as I would sit 
dowi. to beat hemp. 

Some pins of your letter of the 20lh August struck 
me with the most melancholy concern for the «late of 
your raiud at present. 



Would 1 could write you a letter of comfort ! 1 
would sit down to it with as much pleasure as 1 would 
to write an Kpic poem of my own composition that 
•hould equal the liiad. Religion, my dear friend, is 
the true comfort. A strong persuasion in a future 
•tite of existence ; a proposition so obviously proba- 
ble, that, setting revelation aside, every nation and 
people, so far as investigation has reached, for at least 
near four thousand yearn, have in some mode or other 
frmly b«li»T4d \u la vain would w« reason and pre- 



tend, to doubt. I have mytelf none «o to a very danng 

pitch : but when 1 refl-rcted that I was opposing the 
most ardent wishes, and the most darling hope* of 
good men, and flying in the face of all human belief, la 
all ages, 1 was shocked at my own conduct. 

1 know not whether I have ever sent you the follow- 
ing lines, or it you have ever seen them ; but it is one 
ol iny favourite quotations, which 1 keep constantly 
by nie in my progress through lite, in the language of 
the book of Job, 

" Against the day of battie and of war"— 

spoken of religion. 

" 'TisiWs, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, 

'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. 

When wealth forsakes us, ami when friends are few ; 

When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 

'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 

Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 

Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 

Bids smiling conscience sjiread her cloudless skies." 

I have been very busy with Zeluco. The Doctor is 



so obhiiing as 



i reqi) 



been revolving m my mintl soine khid of criticisms on 
novel writing^ but it is a depth beyond my researcli. i 
shall, however, digest my thoughts on ti's subject as 
well as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling performaiico. 

Farewell 1 Dieu, le bon Dieuje vou* commencU 



No. LXXXIV. 

FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 2ilh Augutt, 1789. 
Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thy virtues and thy art ; 
If art it may be call'd in 'bee, 
Which nature's bounty, large and free, 
With pleasure on thy breast diffuses, 
And warms thy soul with uU the Muses, 
Whether to laugh with easy grace, 
Thy numbers move the sago's face, 
Or bid the softer passion rise. 
And ruthless souls with gi ief surprise, 
'Tis nature's voice distinctly felt. 
Through thee her organ, thus to melt. 

Most anxiously I wish to know. 
With thee of late hnw matters go ; 
How keeps thy mnch-loved Jean her health? 
What promises thy farm of wealth? 
Whether the muse persists to smile. 
And all thy anxious cares beguile? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive? 
And how thy darling infants thrive? 

For me, with grief and sickness spent. 
Since 1 my journey homeward bent. 
Spirits depress'd iicmoiel mouru, 
But vigorr, life, and health return. 
No more (o gloomy thonzhls a prey, 
I sleep .tII night, and live nil day ; 
By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
And thus my circling hours employ I 
Happy while yet these hours remain 
If Bnrns rould loin ths chrsrfnl traiiw 



LETTERS. 



tfS 



with wonted zeal, aincerft and ferveiit, 
S*iute once more hii humble gervaul, 

THO.UL.ACKL0CK. 



No. Lxxxy. 

TO DR. BLaCKLOCK,— See Poems, p. 



No. LXXXVI. 

TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ,. OF FINTRY. 

9th December, 1789. 
SIR, 

1 have a good while had a wish to trouble you wilh a 
lelier, and had ct-rlaiiily done it ere now — but lor a 
h'.innlialing soraetliing llial throws cold water on the 
resoUiiion, as ifone should say, " You have loiindAlr. 
Cfrahani u very powerlul and kind I'riend indeed ; and 
that interest lie is so kindly takiiij^ in your concerns, 
you ought, by every thing in your (lower to keep alive 
and cheiish." Now though since God has tliooght 
proper to make one powerlul and another helpless, the 
Ciiniiexio:) of obliger and obliged is all lair; and though 
my being uiideryour patronage is to nie highly honour- 
able, yet, Sir, allow me to (latter myself, liuit as a poet 
and an honest man, you tirst interested yourself in my 
welfare, and principally as such still, you permit me 
to approach you. 

r have found the exciae-business go on a great deal 
imoolhcr witli nie than 1 expect<-d owing a good deal 
to the generous friendship ot Air. iMucliell, my collect- 
or, and the kind assistance of Mr. Findlat,-, my su- 
pervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. 
Nor do 1 find my hurried life greatly inimical to my 
Correspondence with the Muses. 'I'iieir visits to me, 
indeed, and 1 believe to most of their acquaintance, 
like the visits of good angeis, are short and far be- 
tween ; but 1 meet them now and then as I jog ibrough 
the hills of NithsJale, just as I used to do on the banks of 
Ayr. I take the liberty to enclose you a few bagaielles, 
all of them the productions of my leisure thoughts in 
my excise rides. 

If yon know or have ever seen Captain Grose the 
antiijnarian, yon will enter into any hunmur that Is in 
the versas on him. rerhapi yon have seen them befor e, 
as I sent them to a Lo.idon newspaper, i'hougli 1 dure 
iay you have none of the solemn-league-aMd-covKouiit 
fire, which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gor- 
don and tlie Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think yuu 
must have heard ol Dr. M'GiU, one af the cleiT^ymen 
of Ayr, and his heretical book. Gnd help him, pi>or 
man ! I'hough he is one of the worthiest, as well a? 
one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk 
01 Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, 
yet the poor Doctor and Ins numerous hmiily are in 
imcninent danger of being thrown out to the mercy 
of I he winter- winds. The enclosed ballaii on tlial hu 
sini'sg is, I confess, too local, but 1 laughed myself at 
MiHiie conceits in it, though 1 am convinced in my con- 
tcience that there are a good many heavy stanzas io it 



The election ballad, as you will see. alludes to the 
present canvass in our string of boroughs. I do not be 
ii«ve there will be such a hard-run match in the whole 
general election.* 



I am too little a man to have any political attach- 
ments ; 1 am deeply indebted to, and have the warra- 

* This alludes to the contest for the borough of Dum- 
fries, between the Duke of dneensberry's interest and 
ibM of Sir James Johnstone. K, 



est veneration for, Indivll-jali of both parties ; but » 
liiaii who hiis It in his power to be tlie father of a coon, 
try, and who ' * * ' is a character that one 
caniiut speak of with patience. 



Sir J. J. does' 
his fate. 



what man can do ;" but yet 1 doubt 



No. LXXXVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland... \Zth December, 1789 
Many thanks, dear Madam, for your sheetful of 
rhymes. Though at present 1 am helow the veriest 
prose, yet from you every thing pleases. I am groan- 
ing under the miseriesof a Uiseasad nervous system ; a, 
system, the itate of which is most conductive to our 
happiness — or the most productiveof our misery. For 
now near three weeks I have been so ill with the ner- 
vous head ache, that I have been obliged to give up for 
a tune niy excise-books, being scarcely able to lift my 
head, much less to ride once a week over ten muir 
parishes. What is man .-' To-day in the luxuriance 
ol healtli, exulting in the enjoyment of existence ; in a. 
few days, jjerhaps a few hours, loaded with conscioua 
painful being, coiiiuiiig the tardy pace of the lingering 
niunieiusby the repercussions ol anguish, and refusing 
or denied a comforter, day follows night, and nigiit 
comes alter day, only to curse him with life which 
gives him no pleasure ; and yet the awful, dark 
termination of that hfe is a something at wliich he 
recoils. 



" Tell us, ve dead ; will none of you in pity. 

Diaclose the secret 

Wkit 'lis you are, andwemusl shortly bel 

• 'tis no matter : 

A little lime will make us learu'd a* you are. 

Can it he possible, that when I resign this frail, re- 
verUh being, I shall still find myeelf in conscious exist- 
ence ! VVIien the last gasp of agony has announced 
that I am no more to tliose that knew me, and ihefew 
who loved me : when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, 
ghastly corse is resieiied into the earth, to be the prey 
of unsightly reptiles, aiifi to become in time a trodden 
clod, shall 1 he yet warm in life, seeing and seen, enjoy- 
ing ami enjoyed .'' Ye venerable sages, and holy tla- 
mens, is their probability in your conjectures, truth in 
your stories, of another world beyond death ; or, are 
they all alike, baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? 
If there is another life, it must be only for the just, the 
benevolent, the amiable, and the humane ; what a flat- 
tering idea, then, is a world to come I Would to God 
I as firmly believed it, a» I ardently wish it ! There 1 
should meet an aged parent, now at rest from the many 
buffciings of an evil world, against which he Mas so 
Imigand hrnvely struggled. There should I meet the 
friend, the tlisinierested friend of my early life ; the 
man who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me and 

could serve me. Muir ; tiiy weaknesses, were the 

aberrations of human nature, but thy heart glowed 
with every thins generous manly and noble ; and if 
ever eitirtiiatiun from ths AH good Being animated a 
human form, it is thine ! — 'I'here should I, with speeds., 
less agony of rapture, again recognize my lost, my esei 
dear .Vlary ' whose bixoui was, fraught with truth, hou. 
our, constancy, and love. 



My Mary, dear depsrteJ shadel 
VVh^re is thy place of heavenly re»t/ 

Seest thou thy lovur lowlv laid ; 
Hear'St ihon the gtnans that read hi« brewrtf 



96 



LETTERS. 



JeaiinChriBt, thou amiablest of characters! I truEt . of what vohime he pleased in the coileejion ; the »e- 



Inou art no iinposier, and that thy revelation of bliss 
till scenes of cxislence uevmil death and the srave is 
ijot one ol the many impositions which time after time, 
have been pahned on credulous mankind. 1 trust iliai 
in ihee '• shall all the families of the earth be blessed," 
by being yet connecied together in a better world, 
where every tie that bcxund heart to heart, in this state 



cciid hi\d his choice 
second ; and so o 
who had been first 
was last at this h 
and soon through 



first ; ihe lliii J ai.ci itie 
the last. .4t next meeting, hg 
Ihe list at the preceding meeting 
•ho had been second was fnst ; 
whole three yeais. /tlheexpi- 



tion 



1 of the engagement, the books were sold by 
but only among the menibeis themselves ; 



of existence, shall be, far beyond our iireaeiU concep- j each man had a share in the common slock, in moneT 
tious. more endearing. I or in books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 



I am a good deal inclined to think with those wno 
inainiain, tnat what are called nervous afl'ections are 
in fact diseases of the mind. I cannot reason, I can- 
not think i and but to you 1 would not venture to write 
any thing above an order to a cobbler. You have Lll 
loo much of the ills of life not to sympathize wiih a dis- 
eased wretch, who is impaired more than hall' of any 
faculties he possessed. Vowr goodness will excuse this 
distracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely j 
read, and which he would throw into the lire were he | 
able to write any thing better, or indeed any thing at 
all. 

Rumour told me something of a son of yours who 
was returned from the Kast or West-indies. If yon 
have gotten news ol James or Anthony, it was cruel 
in yon not to let me Know ; as I promise yon on the 
sinceiity of a man who is weary of one world and 
anxious about another, that scarce any thing could 
give ine so much pleasui-e as to hear of any good tiling 
befalling my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up your pen in 
pity tn le pauvre muerable. 



No. LXXXVIII. 

TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

SIR, 

The following circumstance has, I believe, been omit- 
ted in the statistical accinnit transmitted to you, of the 
parish of Dnnscore, in Niihsdale. I beg leave to send 
it to to you, because it is new, and may be useful. How 
far it is deserving of a place in your patriotic publica 
tiou, you are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes with useful 
knowledge is certainly of very great importance, both 
to tliem as individuals, and to society at large. Giving 
hem a turn for reading and reflection, is eiving ihein 
a source of innocence and laudable artnisernent ; and, 
beisdes, raises them to a more dignified degree in the 
scale of rationality. Impres"ed with this idea, a een- 
tiemai; in this parish, Robert Kiddel, Ksq. of Gleiirid- 
del, set on foot a species of circulating library, on a 
plan so simple as to he practicable in any corner of the 
coiiiiiry ; and so useful as to deserve the notice of every 
couniiy gentleman, who thinks the impruvemeiit of 
that part of his own species, whom chance has tin own 
into the humble walks of the peasant and the artisan, a 
matter worthy his attention. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of hi? own tenants, and 
farming neighbours, to form themselves into a society 
for the purpose of having a library among themselves. 
They entered into a legal engaaemeiit to abide by it 
for three years : with a saving clause or two, in case 
of a removal to a distance, or of death, fach member, 
at his entry, paid five shillings ; and at each of their 
meetings, which were held ever fourth Satuiday, six- 
pence more. With their entry money, and the credit 
which they took on the faiih nf iheir future funds, they 
laid in a tolerable stock of books, at the comineiice- 
nieiit. What authnt." ibev weie to purchase, was al 
ways decided by a inajoiity. At every meeting, all 
(he books, under certain fine? and forfeitures, by way 
of penalty, were to be produced : and the members h.td 
their choice of the volumes in rotation. ■• e whose 
aaiiMilouf'. for that night first on the list, had his choice 



At the breaking up of this little society, which wa« 
formed under Mr. Riddle's patronage, wliat with beiie- 
lactions of books from him, and what with their own 
purchases, they had collected together upwards ol one 
hundred and fifty rolumts. It will easily be guessed, 
that a gnod deal of trash would be bought. /Among 
tlie books, however, ot this little library, were, hi ir's 
i-ej-mons, Robertson's History of Scotlnnd, Hume'g 
History ol the i>tuaTts,The .^ptctator, Idler, Arlvft- 
turer, Mirror, Loung'7, Observer, Man of F elins. 
Ma I of the World, Chryslal, Don QuixoJte. Joseyk 
Anclrries, &c. A peasant who can read anil enioy 
such books, is certainly a much superior being to hig 
niighboiir, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very 
little removed except in shape, from the brutes he 
drives.' 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their bo mnch-mer- 
ited success, 

I am, Sir, your humble servant, 

A PEASANT. 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO CHARLES SHaRPE, ESa. OF HODDOM. 

Unaer a Jklitious aignature, inclosing a ballad, I7E0 
or 1791. 

It is true. Sir, yon are a gentleman of rank and for- 
tune, and I am a poor devil ; you are a feather in llw 
cap of society, and I am a very hobnail in his shoes ; 
yet 1 have the honour to belong to the same family 
with you, and on that score I now address you. You 
will perhaps suspect that I am going to claim your af- 
finity with the ancient and honourable lioiise ol Kil- 
patricU : No, no, Sir : 1 cannot indeed be properly 
said to belong to any house, or even any province or 

* This letter is extracted from the third volnine of 
Sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p.5£8.- It was encloeed 
to Sir John by Mr. Riddel himself, in the following lel» 
ter, a,3o printed there. 

"Sir John, I enclose yoii a letter, written by Mr. 
Burns,as an addition to the account of Dunscore parish. 
It contains an account of a small library which he nas 
so good (at my desire) as to set on fool, in the barcny 
o*'^lonkland, or Friar's Car«e, in this pariah. As its 
utility has been felt, particularly among the younger 
class of people, I think, that if a similar plan were es- 
tablished in the different ]iarishes of Scotland, it would 
tend greatly to the speedy improvement of the tenant 
ry, trades people, and work-people. Mr. Biiins wag 
so good as to lake the whole charge of this small con- 
cern. He was treasurer, librarian, and censor, to this 
little society, who will long have a grateful senJe of 
his ))iiblic spirit and exertions for their improvement 
and information. 

I have the honour to he, Sir John, 
Yours, most sincerely, 

RtiBKRT RIDDEL." 

To Sir John Sinclair, of Ulster, Bnrt 



LETTERS. 



97 



llngdom, aa my mother, wno for many years was 
•I'Oune lo a inarchiiii^ legiinciu, gave me iiiiu Uiis bad 
wurld, aooard ihe pacKei boat, soniesvhere between 
i)oiia2;haaee and 1 oripatnck. By our coiiimon i'ami 
ly, 1 inei<.ii, Siir, the lamily of the Muses. I am a h'1- 
dler auU a poet ; and you, 1 am told, play an exqi 
violni, and have a standard lasie in belles Lttlera. 
'I'he oti.ei' day, a brotlit-r cat>;i.t gave a charming 
Scots air of your comp'iaaioii. 11 I was pleased with 
tlie tune, I was in raptures with the title you have giv- 
l-n it ; and, taking up the idea, I have spun it into 
three stanzas enclosed. Will you allow me, Sir, to 
present you lliem, as the dearest offering thai a misbe- 
gotten son of poverty and rhyme has to give ; 1 nave a 
lunging to take you by ih: hand and unburden my 
heart ijy saying— " Sir, 1 lionour you as a man who 
supports the tligtiily of human nature, amid an age 
when friv.ihty ai.d avarice have, between them, de- 
based us below the brutes thai perish !" Bui, alas. 
Sir! to me yiiu are una|iproachaule. It is true, the 
Muses baptized me in L'astiliaii streams, but the 
thoughtless gipsies h.rgot to give me a Name. As the 
sex have served many a good lellow, the Nine have 
given me a great deal of pleasure, but bewitching 
jades ' they have beggared me. Would they but spare 
me a little of their cast Imen I were it only lo put ii in 
my power to say that 1 have a shirt on my back 1 But 
the idle wenches, like Solomoirs lilhes, ■* they toil not 
neither do they spin ;" So f must e'eii continue to tie 
my remiianl of a cravat, like the hangman's rope 
round my naked throat, and coax my galligaskins lo 
keep together their many-coloured tragments. ..s to 
the ati'air of shoes, 1 have given that up. ^ly pil- 
grimages ill my ballad-trade from town to town, antj on 
your stony-hearted turnpikes loo, are what not even 
the hide of Job's Behemoth could bear. The coat 
on my back is no more; I cannot speak evil of the 
dead, it would be equally nnhandsoine and ungrate- 
ful to find fault with my old surtout, which so kindly 
supplies and concetis thi» want of that coat. My hat 
indeed is a great favourhs ; and though 1 got it liter- 
ally for an old song, I U\'>alil not exchange it for the 
best beaver in Britain. 1 was, during several years, 
a kind of factotum servant to a cleigyman, where I 
picked up a good many scraps of learning, particular- 
ly in some branches of mathematics. Whenever I 
{eel inclined to rest Jiayself on my way, I take my seat 
under a hedge, layij^ my poefjc wallet on my one side, 
and my fiddle-case or. the ctbar, and placing my hat 
between my legs, I cc.*.. by msaas of its brim, or rather 
brims, gu through lbs (UboXi doztriue of the Conic Sec- 
tions, 

However, Sir, floi' lot nwEdjleadyou, as if I would 
interest your pity. Portuus has so much forsaken me, 
that she has taught me to live without her ; and, amid 
all my ra^s and poverl/, 1 am as independent, and 
much more happy than a monarch of the world. Ac- 
;i)rduig to the hackneyed metaphor, I value tlie several 
actors in the great drama ol life, simply as they act 
their parts. I can look on a worthless fellow of a 
duke wnh iinqualilied conttmpt ; and can regarii an 
honest scavenger with sincere respect. As you, Sir, 
go ihrough your ruli with such distinguished merit, 
peimit me lo make one in the chorus of univer- 
sal applause, and assure you that, with the highest 
r«apect, 

i have the honour to be, &c. 



No. XC. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Ellisland, Uth January, 1790. 
DEAR BROTHER, 

I mean to take advantage of the frank, though I have 
not, in my preaenl frame of mind, much ajipetiie for 
exertion ia vvri'ing. My nerves are in a **" state. 
I ieel thai horrid hypocondria pervading every atom 
of both body and soul, i'his farm has undone my en- 
jovment of myself. It is a niinons affair on all hands. 
But let-it go 10 *••♦ ! I'll fight it out and be off with it. 



We have i;otten a set of very decent players )t;.t 
now. I have seen h^.m an evening or two. Dsvni 
Caniphell, in Ayr, wrote lo me by the manager ol itie 
company, a Mr. Sntht-rland, who'is a man of apparent 
wmiii. t)ii New- V,;-!;- day evening 1 gave him tile 
I'ulliming piologue,' which he spouted to his audience 
with applause — 

I can no m ire.— If once I wasclear oft' this **•* (arm 
I should respire more at ease. 



No. XCI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 25th January, 1790, 
It has been owing to unremitted hurry ol husiiiess 
that I have not written lo you. Madam, long ere now, 
My health is greatly ••e'ter, anff I now begin oiice more 
to share in saiisfaction and enjoyment with ihe rest of 
my fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for your 
kind letters ; but whv will you make me run the risk 
of being coniempiibJc and mercenary in my own eyes.'' 
When 1 pique myself on my independent spirit, 1 liiipe 
it is neither poetic license, nor poetic rani and I am 
so fiaitered with the _:onour you have done me, in ma- 
king me your compeer in friendship and friendly cor- 
respondence, that 1 cannot without pain, and a degree 
of mortificalion, be eminded of the teal inequality 
between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with yon, dear Madam, 
ill the good news of Anthony. Not only your anxiety 
about his fate, but my own esteem for such a noble, 
warm-hearted, manly young fellow, in the little I ha(\ 
of his acquaintance, has interested me deet-.y in his 
fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Shipwreck, 
which you so much admire, is no more. After witnes- 
sing the dreadful catastrophe he so feelingly describes 
in his poein, and after weathering raaiiy hard gales uf 
fortune, he went lo the bottom with the Aurora Irigate ; 
I forget what |iart of Scotland had the honour of giv 
ing him birih, hut he was the son of obscurity and E":i» 
fortune. t He was ooe of those daring advenlurtiK 

* This prologue is printed in the Poems, p. 82. 

t Falconer was in early life a sea-hoy, to use a wo- ,' 
of Shakspeare.on board a man of war. in which cana 
city he attracted the notice of '."ampliell, the aiu.io. ,i- 
the satire on Dr. Johnson, entitled Lexiphnnes, then 
purser of the ship. Campbell took him as his servant, 
and delighted in giving him instruction ; and when 
Falconer afterwards acquired celebrity, boasted o( 
him as his scholar. The Editor had this informatiim 
from a surgeon of a man-of-war, in 1777, who knew 
both Campbell and Falconer, and who himself perished 
soon after by shipwieck on the coast of America. 

Though the death of Falconer happened so lately as 
1770 or 1771, yet in the biagra] ny prefixed by Dr. An- 
derson to his works, in the complete edition of the 
Pi.etsof Great Britnin, it is said— " Of the faniily, 
birth-place, and education of W illjam Falconer, there 
are no memorials." On the anthoiity already given, 
iJ may be mentioned, that he was a nativeof nne of ihe 
towns on the coast of Fife : and that his parcnls who 
had suffered some misfnrtnnes, remove! to one of the 
sea-ports of England, where they both dieil soon after, 
of an epidemic fever, leaving poor Falconer, then a 
boy, forlorn and destitute. In consequence of whicb 
he entered on board a man-of-war. These last Citb 
cumstances are, however less certain. £. 



LETTERS 



•oiriti which Scotland, beyond euy uther eountry, i» 
remarkablefor produciiij!. Little does the fond moth- 
er tliiiik, «» she hangs drhehted over ihe sweet lit'.le 
Jeech at her bosom, where the poor lellow may hereaf- 
ter wander, and what mav he his tale. I remember a 
litaiiza ill an .ild Scottish ballad, which notwithstand- 
ing its rude simplicity, suealts leelingly to the heart : 

" Little did my motiicr think, 

That day she cradled me, 
What land I was to travel in, 

Or what death I should die!" 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite study 
iind pursuit of mine; and now I ain on that subject, 
allow me to give you two stanzas of another old simple 
ballad, which I am sure will please you. The catas- 
trophe of the piece is a poor ruined female lamenting 
her fate. She concludes with this pathetic wish : 

' that my father had ne'er on me smil'd ; 
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung I 
3 that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 
But that 1 had died when I was younj I 

O that the erave it were my hed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfeliows a' ; 

And O sae sound as I should sleep 1" 

I do not remember in all my reading to have met 
with any thing more truly the langnase of misery than 
the exclamation in the last line. Mi'^ery is like love ; 
to speak its language truly, the author must have felt 
it. ^ 

I am every day expecting the doctor to eive your 
little eodson* the small p.ix. They are rife in' the 
country, and I tremble for his fate. By the way 1 can- 
not help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. 
Every i)erson who sees him acknowledges him to he 
the finest, handsomest chiM he has ever sren. lam 
nri-self delighteil with the manly swell of his little chest. 
kikI a certain minialnre dignity in the carriage of his 
head, and thegbnce of his fine black eye, which pro- 
raise the undaunted gallantry of an independent mmd. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, hut time 
forbids. I promise you poetry until you are tired of 
it, next time I have the honour of assuring you bow 
truly 1 am, &c. 



FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

28i^ January, 1790. 
In some instances it is reckoned unpardonable to 
quote anyone's own words ; unt the value I have for 
your friendship, nothing can more truly or more ele- 
gantly express than 

" Time but the impression stronger makes, 
As streams (heir channels deeper wear." 

Having written to you twice without having heard 
from you, 1 am apt to think my letters have miscar- 
ried. My conjecture is only framed upon the chapter 
of accidents turning up against me, as it too often does, 
in the trivial, and, I may with truth ■•dd, the m'>re im- 
portant affairs of life ; but I shall conlinue occa.si.in- 
aliy to inform you what is going on among the circle of 
your friends in these parts, in these days of merri- 
ment, I have frequently heard your name prod ■x'med 
•it the iovial board — under the roof of our hospilaii'ie 
friend at Stenhoute-milla ; there were no 

* The bard'k leccnd ton, Franeii. )b. 



" Lingering motnenl« numbered with care.'* 

I saw your Addrtaa to the New Yenr, In tiie Dai» 
fries Journal. Uf your productions I shall say no- 
thing ; but my acquaintance allege that wheji your 
name is meiuijued, winch every man of celebrity mual 
know often happens, 1 am the champi.ui, the Men(io7.a. 
against all snarling critics and narrow minded re{.lilea, 
of whom a ftw on this planet do crawl. 

With best compliraenls to your wife, and her tilack- 
eyed sister, 1 remain 

1 ours, &v.% ■ 



No. XCIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, 

Ellinland, ]3th February, 1790. 
T bee your pardon, my dear and much valued friend, 
for writing to you on this very unfashionable, unsigbt 
ly sheet— 

" My poverty but not my will consents." 

But to make amends, since on modish post I have 
none, except one poor widowed half sheet of gilt, which 
lies in my drawer among my plebeian toolscap pages, 
like the willow of a man oriashiun, whom that impo- 
lite scoundiel. Necessity, has driven from Burgnndt 
and : ine-apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal- 
bearing helpmate of a village-priest ; or a glass of 
whiskey-toddy, with the ruby nosed yoke-fellow of a 
foot-paddi:-g exciseman — I make u vow to enclose this 
sheet full of epistolary fragments in that my only scrap 
of gilt paper. 



I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three friendly 
letters. I ought In have written to you long ere now 
but it is a literal fact, I have scarcely a spare moment. 
It is nut that I wilt, not write to you ; Miss Biuuet it 
not more dear to her guardian angel, noi hisgrnce the 

Duke of • 'to the powers of'""" than my 

friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I cnri' at 
write to you ; should you doubt it, take the following 
fraiimeiit wiich was intended for you some lime ago, 
and lie convinced that 1 can ni,ti(hesizf sentiment, and 
circumvolute jieriods, as well as any coiner uf phrase 
in the regions of philology. 

Decanbtr, 1789. 
MY DRAR CUNNINGHAM, 

Where are you .-" and what are yon doing.'' Cait 
you be that son of levity who takes up a friendship a* 
he lakes up a fa«hion ; or are you, like some other o( 
the worthiest fellows in the world, the victim of indo 
lence, laden with fetters ui ever-increasing weight.' 

What strange beings we are ! Since we have a por 
tion of conscious existence, equally capable of enjoy- 
ing pleasure, happiness, and raj'ture, or uf snflenng 
paid, wretchedness, and misery, it is surely wwrlhy of 
an inquiry whether there he not such a thing as a sci- 
ence of life, whether method, economy, and fertihly 
o'i expedients, be not applicable to enjoyment ; and 
whether there be not a want of dexterity in pleasure 
which renders our little scnntling of happiness still 
less ; and a )M'ofuseness and Inioxiration in blisS, u hich 
leads to Batiely, disj;ust, and sell-abhorrence. There 
is not a doubt but that health, talents, chaiacter, de- 
cent competency, respectable friends, are real substan 
tial blessings ; and yet do we not liaily see those who 
enjoy many or all ol these good things, contrive, nol- 
! withstanding, to be as unhappy as others to whose lot 
! lew of them have lallen ; I believe one greet source 
of this mistake or niiscondncl is owing to a cerlain 
I stimulus, with us called ambition, whish goads us up 
j the lilll of life, not as we ascend other eminences, for 
I he laudable curiosity of viewing an extended land- 
I scape, but rather for Ihe dishonest pride of luokiiif 
I down on others nt our fellow -erp«i ores seetaicifiy d»- 
F soinuiivs in bumhlur' stalionc, &e. te. 



LETTERS. 



S9 



SaturddT/, fit\ Februaiy 1790. 
God belp me I I am now obliged lo joiu 

" Night to day, and Saturday to the week." 

If mere be any triiUi "ui the ortiiodox fr.ith of these 
chiirches, I am ••*•* past refltMi(iUuii, and what is 
woi-se, "'*"' to all elei-nity. 1 am ilet-iily read in ^os- 
ton's Fourfold cilatu, M irshai on Sunaificalion, 
Guthrie's Tnnl oj a Having Interest, &c.; but 
" there is no balm in Gileail, tliuie is nu pliysician 
llieie," forme; so I shall e'en turn Armenian, and 
trust to "sincere though iinijerl'ccl obedience." 



Tuesday, 19th. 
Luckily for me T was prevented from the discussion 
of the knotty point at wliich I had just made a full stop. 
All my fears aiul cares aie of this world : if there is 
another, an honc-st ni«n has nothing to fear from it. 1 
hate a man that wishes to be a IJeist ; but, I fear 
every fair, unprejudiced inquirer nuist in some degree 
be a Sceptic. It is not that liicre are any very stagger- 
ing arguments against the immortality of man; but 
like electricity, phlogiston, &c. the subject is so invol- 
ved in darkness, that we want data to go u\)Om. One 
thing frightens me much : that we are to live for ever, 
seems too good >,ews lo be true. That we are to enter 
a new scene of existence, where exempt f-om want and 
pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our iViends, without 
satiety or separation — how much should I be indebted 
to any one °vho could fully assure me that this was cer- 
taiu. 



My time is once more expired. I will write to Mr. 
Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all his concerns. 
And may all the powers that preside over conviviality 
and friendship, be |)resent with all their kindest influ- 
ence, when the bearer of this, Mr. Syme, and you 
meet ! I wish 1 could Mso make one. — I think we should 
be • • * * 

Final'v, brethren, farewell! Whatsoever things are 
lovely, whatsoever tilings are gentle, whatsoever things 
are cliaritable, whatsoe\er things are kind, think on 
these tlihigs, and thiuk on 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. XCIV. 

TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. 
At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly Socie- 
ty, it was resolved to augment their library by the fol- 
lowing books, which you are to send us as soon as pos- 
sible : — The Mirror, The Loaiger, Man of Feeling, 
Mm of the World, (these for rny own sake, 1 wish to 
have by the first carrier,) Ki-ox's History of the Re 
form-Llio'i ; Rie's History of the Rebellion in 1715; 
any eood Histoiyof the Rebe/lio i in 1745 ;'n Disjilay 
of the Cessation Act nnd Testimo y, bv Mr. Gil)b , 
H'":ey's Me-iilaio s ; Beveridge's Thoughts; and 
another copy o! Watson's Body of Divinity. 

t wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four months 
ago, to pay some moiif. n.^ .wed me in' j youi hands, 
and (.".lelv'l wrote in v,,,i ■, ■ c jairie p.i: Jiosa, but 
1 bsLV.' , ! l\-,:n .leiLhf ■: ; i. .r cll.er i:f ^ uu. 

1' .h -, DO'ks [ commissioned in my last, 

I v-.a.u ; J laiicn. An L>dx to the Excise Laws, or 
CH Abridgment of all I'-s .-l.:tutes now in force rel.i- 
tive to th.i Excise, by Jcilinger Symous ; 1 want three 
copies of this book ; if ills now to be had, cheaper 
dear, get it for me. Ai\ honest country .neighbour of 
mine wantii, too, A Family Bible, the larger the bet- 
t»r. but secooJ-hauded, for he does not choose to give 



above ten shillings for the book. I want Uitewise for 
myself as you can pick them up, secondhanded or 
cheap, copies of Oiuiay's Vranuilic Works, Be,, Jon- 
son's, Uryden's, Congrtve's, Wychcriey's, Van- 
burgh's, Cibbir's, or any Dnnnatic Works of the 
more modern Macklin, Gurrick, Foott, Col. man, or 
Sheridan. A good copy too, of l^Jolier,;, in French, I 
much want. Any other good dramatic authors in that 
language I want also, but comicauthors chiefly, ;hough 
1 should wish to hav^ Racine, Cornei/le, ami' Voltaire 
too. 1 am in no hurry for all, or any ofihese; but 



And now to quit the dry walk of business, how do 
you do, my dear friend ? and how is Mrs. Hill? I 
trust, if now and then not so elegantly lianrloome, at 
least as amiable, and smgs as divinely as ever. My 
good wife, too has' a charming "wood-note wihl ;" 
now could we four 



I am out of patience wiih this vile world for one 
thing. Mankind are by nature beiievuleiit crtalun-s. 
Except in a few scoundrelly hislanccs, 1 do not think 
tliat avarice of the good things we chance to liave, is 
horn with us ; but we are placed here amid so much 
nakedness, and hunger, and poverty, and want, that we 
are under a cursed necessity ol .stii'ilying seltishness, in 
order that we may exist .' Still there are, in every 
age, a lew souls, that all the wanis and woes of this 
life could debase to selfishness, or even lo the necessa- 
ry alloy cf caution and prudence. 11 ever I am in dan- 
ger of vanity, it is when I contemplaie myself on this 
side of my disposition and character. God knows 1 
am no saint ; 1 have a whole host of follies and sins 
to answer for: out if I could, and I believe I doit as 
iar as J can, 1 would wipe away all tears from all eyes. 
Adieu 1 



No. XCV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

El/island, I9th April, 1720. 
I have just now, my ever-honou>-ed friend, enjoyed 
a very high luxury, in reading a paper ol the /hunger. 
You kimw my national prejudice. I had often read 
ami admired the pectalor. Adv:iiturer, Hninbler, 
and World: bin stillwith a certain regret, that ihcy 
were so thoroughly ami entirely KiisiisM. Alas ! hH.vc I 
often said to myself, what are all the buasied udvai ta- 
ges which my country perhaps reaps Ironi the union, 
that can counterbalance the annihilatimi of iier inde- 
peiuleuce, and even her very name 1 1 otien repeal 
that couplet of my favourite pOet, Goldsmith^ 

" States of native liberty possess'd, 
Tho' very poor may yet be very bless'd." 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common terms, 
" Eiiglish ambassador, English court, cic. And 1 am 
out of all patience to see lliat equivocal character, 
ilasiings, iiiipeacl.ed by " the Commmis of England." 
'I'ell me, ray Irieiid, is this weak prejuilice.^ I believe 
ill my conscience such ideas as, " my couiuiy ; lier 
inde(.eiideiice ; her iionour ; ihe illi'ii.trioiis names 
that mark the history of my native laud ;" &c. I be- 
lieve these, among your men of tlie world , nieu wl»i in 
fact guide to>- the most Jiail aii'd govern uiir woild, are 
iooke.. !>!. :',.3 so many inodiflcarioiis of wrungheaded- 

to rouse or lead the rabbis ; Nut fur their own pi ivaie 
use; with almost all the a'ji'e stat(sinen\'v\ai ever ex- 
isted, or now exist, wlieii they talk of riglii air. .s ri.ug, 
they only mean proper and improper, and incir nit-a- 
sure of conduct is, not what they uiiuht, tuit what they 
dare. For the truth of this l shall not ransack Ihe 
history of nations, but appeal ic)()ne of the ablest men 
that ever lived— the celebrated Karl of Chesterfield. )n 
fact, a man who could thoroughly tutitroj his vicea 



100 



LETTERS. 



wheneTcr they interfered! with his intereita, and who 

could completely put on the appearance ol every virtue 
K« it suiieti hi8 purposes, is, ou the Stanhopian plan, 
the perjecl mill ; a man to lead nations. But are 
great ahililies, coinpleie vvlilionl a flaw, and polished 
wiilMiii a bicinlsh, tlie siuridard of liunian excellence .-■ 
'I'tiis IS certainly the staunch opinion of m n of the 
wurld ; but . call on honour, viruie, and worth to jfive 
the st.siiaii doctrine a loud negaiive ! However, this 
inusi be allowed, that, if you abstract troin man the 
idea of existence beyond the grave, then the true mea- 
sure of human conduct is ^/o/yer and impropsr: Virtue 
av.d vice, as ilispositions ol the heart, are, in that case, 
cf scarcely the same import and value to the world at 
large, as harmony and discord iii the moditicatiojis of 
sound ; and a delicate sense of honour, like a nice ear 
for music, thougii it may sometimes give the possessor 
an ecstacy unknown to tlie coarser organs of the heiil, 
yet, considering the harsh gratings ot inharmonic 
jars, in this ill timeil slate of bemg, it is odds but the 
iiiilividual would be as happy, and certainly would be 
as much respected by the true judges of society, as it 
Would iheaslaiid, without either a good ear or a good 
heart. 

Yon must know I have just met with the Mirror 
and Lou <s:er fur the first time, and I am)inte in ra|)- 
tures with them ; I should be glid to have your opinion 
of some of the papeis. i'he one I have just read, 
Lo ,nger. No. 61, has cost ine iiio-e honest tears than 
any lliing i have read of a long t:me. M'Kenzie lias 
been called the Addison of the Scots i and, In m\ 
opinion, Addison would not be hur'. at the comparison. 
If he has not Addison's exquisite humour, he as cer 
taiiily outdoes him in the lende'- and pathetic. His 
Mxn of Fedi'tg, (but 1 am not counsel learned in the 
laws of criticism,) I estimate as the hr.st performance 
in Its kind I ever saw. From what book, moral, or 
even pious, will the snscej^ititile yjniig iiiiud receive 
iiTipressions more congenial to linmanity and kindness, 
generosity and benevolence ; in short, 'more of all that 
ennobles the soul to herself, or en lt..r8 her to otiiers — 
Ihau from the simple, ad'ectiiig lalt ol poor darley .'' 

Still, with all my admiration o*" M'Ken7.ie'8 wri- 
ting-, 1 do not know if they are the fittest leailing for 
a younginan who is about to set out, as the phrase is, 
to ni.iKe Ins way into hie. Do not vou think, Miilam, 
that among Ine IcW lavouied of :lei-.ven in the struc- 
ture of thfir minds, (I..I such there cert iinly are,) 
there may be a purity, a lendeiness, a diiiiiiy, an tie 

griie, absoliiifly disqualifying lor the truly iin|iorlani 
i>usine.-s of m .iiini; a in. in's way into life. Ill am not 

much mistaken, my iall.iut young fieml, A is 

v.-ry much under llitsu flisi|Malilij.tlious ; and lor the 
yuiiiig females iif afuiiiiy i cuuld mention, well iniy 

uuaiiitunce, or, as my vainly will li.tve ii,an linmble 
friend, have olteii ireiniileii 'or a turn of mind which 
may reiiuer lliein eminently happy— or peculiarly mis- 
erable 1 



I have been manufacturlii 
as I li&ve ;.u the iiio'-t liun 
Iie»? ovi -. i hope to have m.ii 



; some verses lately ; but 

■ leisure to li auscribe any 
uch I have the honour to 



No. XCVl. 

»1')M Mil. CU.V.N'ING IaM. 

E liabui sh.. i'y'.h Miy, 1739 I 

xMY •■>f.ari;urxs. 

I iirTi uiu. h 1,1 hrij'ed lo yon for your la^t iVieii.lly, 
elegant epijlle, au I it shall ina,<e a part of the vanilv 
cf my composition, to retain your correspondence 
through life. It was remarkaule your introducing the 
name of Miss Burnet, at a lime when she was in such 
Ul health : and I am sure it will grieve your gentle 
baart, to hear of her being in the last suge of a con- 



sumption. Alas ! that to much beauty, Innocence 
and virtue, should be nipped in the bud. Hers wa« 
the smile of cheerlulnesb — of sensibiliiy, not of aiiure- 
mem ; and her elegance of manners corresponded with 
the purity and elevation ul lierinind. 

How does your friendly muse.' I am sure she still 
retains her atitction for you, and that you have iiiany 
ol her favours in your possession, which i have uui 
seen. 1 weary much to hear from you. 



I beseech you do not forget me. 



I most sincerely hope all your concerns in life pros- 
per, and that your roof tree enjoys >he bisssing of good 
health. All your friends here are well, among whom, 
anil not tlu- least, is your acquaiutunce, Cleghoi-n. AS 
lor myself, I am well, as far as ••••"•• will let A man 
be, but Willi these 1 am happy. 



When you meet with my very agreeable friend, J. 
Syme, give him a hearty squeeze, and bid God blest 
him. 

Is there any probability of your being icja in Edio 
burgh i 



No, XCVII. 

TO DR.MOORE. 

Dumfries, Excise-office, Wth July, 1790. 
SIR, 

Coming into town this morning, to attend my duty 
in tins oihce, it bLing collectn.n-ilay, 1 met with a gen- 
tleman who tells me he is on his way lo bondon ; so I 
lake the opportunity of writing to you, as franking is 
at present inrtler a tem^<orary death. I shall lia've 
some snatches of leisure ihrongh the day, amid our 
horrid bnsintss and bnsile, and I shall ni'iprove them 
as Well us 1 can , bnl let my letter be us stUjud a* • 
• *, as miscellaiieoiia as a newspaper, 

as short as a hungry grace belore-ineat, oraslongusa 
law |>aper in the OougUss cause as illspell us conn- 
iry John's iiillet (loiix, or as nnsiglnly a scrawl as Bet- 
ty UyiB-Miicker's answer to U — I hope, Coiisiilerin' 
circumstancts, yon xyill f.rrgive it , and, as it will piil 
ymi lo no expense of postage, 1 shall have the less le- 
tleclion about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning yon thanks 
f.r your most valuable present, Zntuco, In fact you 
are in some ilegree blameahle for my netilect. You 
were jileased to express a wish for my opinion of the 
work, which so llailtred me, ihai nolhirig less would 
si-rvc my overweening lanry. than a formal criticism 
on the I'ook. In faci, I have gravely planned u com- 
oaialive view of ymi, KiL-Ming, itichunlson, and Smol. 
lei. in >imr' diirereiil qualities and lueirls a.^ rrovel wri- 
ters. I'liis. 1 own, iielraVK my ridicul.ius vauiiy, and 

am loi.il .il the s,.ir it vouuz Mihu >hoAS in the book ol 
J. lb— ••.And I s.u.l I «i,l .,is, ,leular-e mv opinion." 
I hav«.puie disi.i:in-r(l my copy of the book with my 
.•iinr rlali.ins. I nev. r l.iKr it uji wiiIumh at the same 
time laKiiia niy pemil, .md marking with iisleri^ins, 
pai-ciithrscs. «r. wherever I rncel with an original 

m.u-Kaolv A .11 tiirired period, or a thai acter skelclied 
with UoCominon precision. 

Though I shall hanlly think of fairly writing uul mj 
" Comparative View," I shall certainly trouble you 
with my remarks, such as they are. 

I have just received from my geuileman, that horrid 



LETTERS. 



101 



I In the book of Revelation- 
be no mure I" 



' That time ehall didf>t, and muit go out of it a« all irien nnit a ■»• 
ked corse.* 



Tlie little collection of sonnets have some charming 
poeiiy in their.. If indeed I am iiidehttd to the lair an- 
thiir tor the book, and not, as I rather suspect, to a 
ei»iel)rate1 author of the other Sex, I should certainly 
nave written to the lady, with my grateful acknowl- 
eiliritieiits, and my own ideas of the comparative ex- 
cellence of her pieces. I would do this last not from 
any vanity of thinking that my remarks could be of 
much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but merely from my 
•wn feeling as au author, doing as I would be done by. 



No. XCVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Sa Aug. 1790. 
DEAR MADAM, 

After a long day's toM. plague, and care, I sit down 
to write to you. Ask me not why I have delayed it so 
long.'' It was owing to hurry, indolence, and tilty oth- 
er things : in short, to any thing — but forgelfulness of 
lapliisamiibledesons.xe. By the by, you are in- 
debted your best courtesy to me for this last compli 
ment, as I pay it from my sincere conviction of in 
truth— a quality rather rare in compliments of these 
grinning, bowing, scraping times. 

Well, I hope writing to you will ease a little my 
troubled soui. Sorely has it been bruised to-day ! A 
ci-deiiant friend of mine, and an intimate acquaint- 
ance of youis, has given my feelings a wound that I 
perceive will gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He 
liB« wounded my pride ! 



No. XCIX. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellislartd, %th Augutt, 1780. 
Forgive me my once dear, and ever dear friend, my 
teeming negligence. You cannot sit down and lancy 
tba busy lite 1 lead. 

I laid down my goose feather to beat my brains for an 
apt simile, and had some thoughts of a country graii- 
u-.im at a family chrisiening : a bride on the market 
day oefore her marriage ! « • • • • 

••••** • * a tavern- 

keeper at an election dinner ; 8fc. &c.— but the resem- 
blance that hits my fancy best, is that blackguard 
miscreant, Satan, who roams about like a roaring 
lion, seeking, searching 'whom he may devour. How- 
ever, tossed about as i am, if I choose (and who would 
not choose) to bind down with the crampeis of atten- 
tion tiie brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear 
up the superstructure of Independence, and from 
its daring turrets, bid defiance to the storms of fate. 
And is not this a "consummation devoutly to be 
Wished?" 

" Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the lion heart and eagle-eye I 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare. 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky t 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the introduc- 
tion of SmoUft's Ode to Tndependence : if you have not 
set- n the poem, I will send it to you. How wretched is 
the m:u\ that hangs on by the favours of the great. To 
•nririk from every digmly of man. at the approach of a 
lordly piece of self-consequence, who amid all his tin- 
sel glitter and stately hnxite,.T is but a creature, form- 
ed a» thou art — ani perhaps not so well formed as thou 
art — eajne- iut>> the world a puling infant as thou 



No. C. 

FROM DR. BLaCKLOCR. 

Edinburgh, \st September, 1790. 
How does ray dear friend, must I languish to hear, 
His fortune, relations, and all that are dear I 
With love of the Muses so strongly still smitten, 
I meant this epistle in verse to have written. 
But from age and infirmity indolence flows. 
And this, much 1 fear will restore me to prose. 
Anon to my business 1 wish to proceed, 
Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to speed, 
A man of integrity, genius, and worth, 
Who soon a performance intends to set forth, 
A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free, 
Which will weekly appear by the name of the Bet, 
Of this from himself I enclose you a plan, 
And hope you will give what assistance you can, 
Entangled with business, and haunted with care, 
In which more or less human nature must share. 
Some moments of leisure the Muses will claim, 
A sacrifice due to amusement and fime. 
The Bee, which sucks honey from every gay b!oom. 
With some rays of your genius her worK may il- 

lume, J 

While the flower whence her honey spoutaneouil/ 

flows. 
As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. 

Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to conclude. 
And add, your promotion is here understood ; 
Thus free from the servile employ of excise. Sir, 
We hope soon to hear you commence Supervisor ; 
Yon then moro at leisure, and free from control. 
May indulge the strong passion that reigns in your 

soul ; 
But 1, feeble I, must to nature give way. 
Devoted cold death's, and longevity's prey ; 
From verses though languid my thoughts must un> 

bend. 
Though still I remain your affectionate friend, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. CI. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

PROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, Uth October, 1790. 

Tlately received a letter from our friend B'*** •****, 

what a charming fellow lost to society — born to great 

expectations— wiih superior abilities, a pure heart, and 

untainted morals, his tate in life has been hard indeed 

still I am persuaded he is happy : not like the gal- 

* The preceding letter explains the feelings undei- 
which this was written. The strain of indignant in. 
vective goes on some time longer in the style which our 
Bard was too apt to indulge, and af which the reader 
has already seen lo nauch. £. 



102 



LETTERS. 



tanl. tne j^y I^otharto, bat in *>ie slinprieity «f rursl 
fiijoytneiii, uatnixed wuh regret ai the remembrance 
of " the days of other years."* 

I g*.w Mr. Dunbar, put under the cover of your 
newspaper Mr. Wood'spoem on Thomson. This poem 
nassugaesled an idea to me « hich >ou aUuie are capa- 
ffie to execute— a fcoii^ adapted to each seas. in uf the 
year. The task is ilimcuU, bullhe Iheine is charrn- 
ins : should you succeed, I wi!l undertake to aec new 
music worthy ot the subject. What a fine tieUI tor your 
imagination! and wlio is theie alive can draw so 
many beauties from Nature and pastoral imagery 
B! yourself.'' It is, by the way, surprising, that there 
dues not exist, so far as I know apropsr so ig ior each 
season. We have songs on hunting, fishing, fckating, 
and one autumnal song, Harvtst Home. As your 
Muse is neither spavined nor rusly, you may mount 
the liill of I'arnassus, and return with a sonnet in your 
pocket for every season. For my suggesiinns, if I be 
rude, correct me ; if impertinent, chastise me ; if pre- 
•uming, despise me. But if you blend all my weak- 
nesses, and puuud out oue grain of insincerity, then I 
•ra uoi ihy 

Faithful Friend. &c. 



No. CII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

November, 1890. 
♦' At cold waters to a.thirity soul, so is good news 
from a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from 
Ton, III return for the mdiiy tidingP of sorrow which I 
have received. Jn this instance 1 most cordially obey 
the apostle—" Rejoice with them that do rejoice,"— 
for me lo sing lor joy, is no new thing ; but lo preach 
forjuy, as I have done in the commencement of this 
epistle, is a pitch uf extravagant rapture to which J 
never ruse before. 

r read your letter— I Iherally jumped for joy — How 
could Much a mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly 
Iceep his seal on the receipt of the best news fruin hix 
beet friend ? 1 seized my gili-headed VVangee rod, an 
insirMinenl indispensably necessary in my left hand, In 
the moment of inspiration and rapture; and stride, 
•tride— quick and quicker— out skipjied I among the 
broomy banks of Nith, to muse over my joy by retail. 
To keep Within the bounds of prose was impossible. 
Airs. Little's is a more elegant, but not a more sin- 
cere compliment, to the sweet little tellow, than I, 
extempuie, almost, poured out to him in the following 
Terses. See Poetni,p. IS— On the Birth of a Pos- 
Ihumoua Child. 



No. cm. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Einstrnd. 23d Jnnufiry, 1731. 
Many happy returns of the season to yon, mv deal 
friend ! /\s many of the good things of'lliijs life ao \» 
ciinsisleiit with the usual mixiui e of good and evil in 
the cup of being ! 

I have just finished a poem, which you will re- 
ceive enclosed. Jt is my first essay in ilie way ol 

tales. 

I have for these several months been hammering at 
an elegy on the amiable and accomplished Miss Bur- 
net. 1 have got, and ran get no liiriher than the fol- 
lowing fragment, on which please give me your stric- 
tures. In all kinds of poetic compusition I set great 
store by your opinion ; but in sentimental verses, in the 
poetry of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set more 
value on the infallibility of the Holy Father thaa 1 do 
on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets a» text reriee.* 



Let me hear from you soon. Adieu ! 



1 am much flattered by your approbation of my Tarn 
o'Shfinter, which you express in your former letter ; 
though, by the by, you load me in that said letter with 
accusations heavy and many ; to all which I plead not 
g nlty ! Vour bo.)k is, I hear, on the roail to reach 
me. As lo printing of poetry, when you prepare it tor 
(he pi ess, you have only to spell it right, and place the 
capital letters pnip«:ly : as to the punctuation, the 
printers do that themselves. 

1 have a copy of Tarn o'Shanter ready to »end 
you by the first opportunity : it is too heavy lo send 
by post. 

1 heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in consequence of 
Tour recommendation, is moat zealous to serve me. — 
Please favour me soon with an account of your good 
folks; if Mrs. H.is recovering, and the young geutle- 
man duing well. 

• The person here alluded to is Mr. S. who en- 
ftarcd th" Editor in this undertaking. See the Dedi- 
cailou. S 



No. CIV. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

nth January, 1791. 
Take these two euineas, and place them over agair tt 
that*'*'" account of yours! which has gagged iny 
mouth these live or six months ! I can as little write 
good ihinirs as apologies to a man I owe moiify to. O 
the supreme curse of making three guineas do the bui^ 
ness of five I Not all the labours of Hercules; not 
all the Hebrews' three centuries of Kgyptian bondage 

were such an insuperable business such an * * 

task! -Foveriy! thou half sister of death, ihou coiisin- 
gtrman of hell! where shall I lind force of execration 
equal to the amplitude of thy demerits.'' I^ppreased 
by thee, the venerable ancient. , grown hoary in the 
practice of every virtue, laden with years and wretch- 
edness, implores a little — little aid to support his ex 
isience from a stony hearteif son of Mammon, whose 
sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; and is by him 
denied and insulted. Oppressed by thee, the man of 
sentiment, whose heart gl.jws with independence, and 
melts with sensibility, inly pines under the neglect or 
writhes in bitterness of soul under th^ cuninniely of 
arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the 
of genius, whose ill starred ambition plants him at 
the tables of the fashionable and polite, must see in 
sutferijig silence his remark neglected, and his person 
despised, while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts 
at wit, shall meet with couutenaure and applause. 
Nor is it only the family of worth that have reason to 
complain of thee, the children of folly and vice, though 
in common with thee the ofl'spring of evil, smart eq>ial* 
ly under thy rod. Owing to thee, the man ol unfortun- 
ate <lisp')silion and neglected education, is condemned 
as a fool forhis dissipation, ilespised and shunned as a 
needy wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to 
want ; and when lii« unprincipled necessities drive him 
to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, 
and perisnes by the justice of his country. But far 
otherwise is the lot of the man of family and fortune. 
His early follies and extravagance are spirit and lire ; 
his consequent wants are the emharras.^meiits of an 
honest fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he 
has gained a legal commission to plunder distant prov> 
inces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, per- 
haps, laden with the simils of rapine and murder; 
lives wicked and respected, and dies a * and a 

* immediately after this were copied the first fix 
stanzas of the Elej^y giveu In p. 83, of tbePoam*. 



LETTERS. 



IftS 



lorrt. Nay,wer»e»f «n atas, fcr helpleos woman! 
the needy prumiiu'.e, who lias shivered at Ihe corner of 
tlie siree'l waiting to earn the wages ot casual proslitu- 
liou, ifc lelt neglecteti ami insuked, ridden nown by 
ihe cliarnot-wheeU of llie coroueted Rip, hurrying 
oi- to the guilty as8f»nalion ; she who without, the 
lame netussitiei to jilead, riol» nightly in the same 
euiltj- trade. 

Wei: ! Divines may say of it what ihey please, but 
execrati.iii is to the mind wr.at phlebotomy is to the 
body ; the vital sluices of both are wonderfully reliev- 
t<l oy their reapectiv* evacuaiiooa. 



cv. 

FROM A. P. TYTLER, ESa. 

Edinburgh, l^th March, 1791. 
DFAR SfR, 

Mr. Hill yeiterday put into my hand* a sheet of 
Grose's Antiquities, contamiiig a poem of yours en- 
titled Tarn o'Shanter, a lale. the very hiyh pleasure 
I have received from the perusal of this admirable 
pi-ce, I feel, demands tlie warmest acknowledgments. 
Hill tella me he is to send offa packet for you this day : 
I cannot resist, therefore, putting on paper what I must 
have told you in person, had I met with you after the 
recent perusal of your tale, which is, thai 1 feel 1 owe 
you a debt, which, if undiacharsed, would reproach 
me with ingratitude. I have seldom in my life tasted 
of higher enjoyment from any work of genius, than I 
have received from this composition : and I am much 
mistaken, if this poem alone, had you never written 
ari,)ther syllable, would not have been sufficient to 
have transmitted your name down to posterity with 
high repciiation. In the iuLroductory pan, wlitre you 
paint the character of your hero, and exhibit him a* 
the ale-house ingle, with' his tippling cronies, you have 
(^delineated nature with a humour and naivete that 
Would do honour to Matthew trior ; but when you 
describe the infernal orgies of the witches' gabbaih, 
and the hellish scenery iu which they are exhibited, 
you display a power of imagination that Rhakjpeare 
hiinself cotild nut have exceeded. 1 know not that I 
have ever met with a picture of more horrible fancy 
than the following : 

" Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight. 
Each in his cauld hand held a light." 

But when 1 came to the succeeding lines, my bload 
ran cold within me : 

" A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 

Whom his ain son of life bereft ; 

The gray hairs yet ttack to the heft." 

And here, after the two following lines, " Wi' mair 
o' horrible and awl'u'." &c. the descriptive part might 
perhaps have been better closed, than the four lines 
which succeed, which, though good in themselves, yet 
as they derive all their merit from the SiUire they con- 
tain, are here rather misplaced among the circuni- 
Blaiicos of pure horror.* The initiation of the young 
witch; is moat happily described — the eft'eci of her 
c!mrm:< exhibited in the dance on Satan himself — the 
apostrophe, '• Ah! little thought Ihy reverend gran- 
nie!" — the transport of Tarn, who forgeta his situa- 
tion, and enters completely into the spirit of the scene, 
are all features of high merit in thin excellent composi- 
tion. The only fault that it possesses, is, that the 
winding up, or conclusion of the story, is not cornmen- 
•urate to the interest which is excited by the descrip- 
tire and characteristic painting of the preceding parts. 
The preparation is fine, but the result is not adequate. 

• Our Hard profited by Mr. Tytler's critisisnu, aud 
tspungnd the foui lines aacordin;{^jr 



But for this, perhaps, yen !i« e a good apt logy — you 
stick to the popular tale. 

And now that 1 have got out my mind, and feel a lit- 
tle relieved of the weight of that debt ) owed you, h-t 
me end this desultory scroll, by an aJvice : you have 
proved your talent for a species of composition in which 
but a very few of our own poets have succeeded — lio 
on — write more tales in the same slyle--you will eclipse 
Prior and La Foniaine ; for with equal wit, equal 
power of numbers, and equal n'iivele of expression, 
you have a bolder, and more vigorous imagination. 
I am, dear Sir, with much esteem 
Yours, &c. 



No. CVI. 



TO A. F. TYTLER, ESa. 

SIR, 

Nothing leas than the unfortunate accident I have 
met with could have prevented my grateful acknowl- 
edgments for your letter. His own favourite poem, 
and that an essay in a walk of the muses entirely new 
to him, where consequently his hopes and fears were 
on the most anxious alarm for his success in the at- 
tempt ; to have that poem so much applauded by one 
of the first judges, was the most delicious vibration 
thai ever trilled along the heart strings of a poor poet. 
However, I'rovideuce, to keep up the proper proportion 
of evil with the good, whicn it seems is necessary in 
this sublunary state, thougin proper to check my exul- 
tation by a very serious misfortune. A day or two af- 
ter 1 received your letter, my horse came down with 
me and broke my right arm. As this is the first service 
my arm has done me since its disaster, I find myself 
unable to do more than just in general terms to thank 
you for this additional instance of your patronage and 
friendship. As to the faults you delected in tlie piece, 
they are truly there : one of them, the hit at the lawy-r 
ami priest, 1 shall cut out : as to the lalliiig off in the 
catastrophe, for the reason you jnsily adduce, ii can- 
not easily be remedied. Your approbation. Sir, has 
given me such additional spirits lo persevere in this 
species of poetic composition that 1 am already revolvii.jj 
two or three stories in my fancy. If 1 ran bring the,«e 
floating ideas to bear any kind of embodied form, it 
will give me an additional opportunity of asuring 
you bow much 1 have the honour lo be, &c. 



No. CVII. 

TOMRS.DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, llh February, 1791. 
When I tell you. Madam, that by a fall, not from 
my horse, but with my horse, I have been a cripple 
some time, and ihat this is the first day my arm and 
hand have been able to serve ine in writing, you will 
allow that it is too good an apology for my seemingly 
ungrateful silence. I am now getting better, and am 
able to rhyme a little, which implies some toltral'le 
ease ; as I cannot think that the most poetic genius is 
able to compose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you my 
having an idea of composing an elegy on the late Misg 
Burnet of Monboddo. 1 had the honour of being pret- 
ty well acquainted with her, and have seldom felt so 
much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when 1 heard 
that so amiable and accomplished a piece of God's 
works was no more. 1 have as yet gone no fartiier 
than the following fragment, of which please let me 
have your opinion. You know that elegy is a subject 
so miich exhausted, that any new idea on the biisines* 
] is not to be expected ; 'tis well if we cnn place an old 
I idea in a new light. How fm I liave succeeded »Jt 10 
1 this last, yoa will judge ftnni what follow <i : — 



104 



LETTERS. 



(/f«re follmced. the Elegy, as giv*.n in the Poems, p. 
82, with, this additional verse :) 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
Thai heart how sunk, a prey to gnel and care ; 

So (ieck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leavea it bleak and bare> 



I have proceeded no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remeTnbrance of 
your godson, came safe. This last. Madam, is scarce- 
ly what my pride can bear. A3 to the little fellow, he 
is, partiality apart, the finest boy I have of a long time 
•een. He is now seventeen months old, has the small- 
pox and measles over, has cut several teelh, and yet 
never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the " little floweret" 
is blooniing sy fresh and fair, and that the " mother 
plant " is rather recovering her drooping head. Soon 
and well may her " ci uel wounds" be healed I I 
hive written thus far with a good deal of difficulty. 
When 1 get a little abler, you shall hear farther from, 
Madam, yours, iSic. 



No. CVIII. 

TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE, 

Aeknoicledging a present of a valuable Snuff box , 
taith afine picture of Macy, Queen of Scots, on ihc 
Lid. 

MY LADY, 

hing less than the unlucky accident of having 
ate token my right arm, could have prevented me, 
the muii^ent I received your Ladyship's elesanl pres- 
tiii by Mrs. Miller, from telurning you my warmest 
and most gratelul acknowled^menlg. I assure your 
Ladyship 1 shall lel it apart ; the symbols of religion 
shall only be more sacred. In the moment of poetic 
Composition, the box shall be my inspiring genius. 
When I would breathe the comprehensive wish of be- 
nevolence for the happiness of others, I shall recollect 
your Ladyship : when I would interest my fancy in 
the distresses inci'lent to humuuily, 1 shall remember 
llie unfortunate Mary. 



No. CIX. 



TO MRS. GRAHAM, 
OF FINTRY. 

MADAM. 

Whether it is that the story of our Mary, Q.ueen of 
Scots, has a peculiar etiect on the feelings of a poet, or 
whether I have in the enclosed ballad succeeded be- 
yoinl my usual poetic success, I know not ; but it has 
pleased me beyond any efl'ort of my muse for a good 
while past ; on that account I enclose it particularly to 
yoi). It IS true, the purity of my motives may be siis- 

|iected. i am already deeply indebted to Mr.G 's 

goodness; and what, in the us lal ways of men, is of 
inliniitly greater importance, Mr. G. can do me ser- 
rice of the utmost importance in time to come. 1 was 
D'rn a poor dog ; and however 1 may occasionally 

{'ick a belter bone than 1 used to do, 1 know 1 must 
ive and die poor; but I will indulge the tt.ittering 
faith that my poetry will considerably oullive my pov- 
e.-ty : and, without any fustian afTeclation of spirit, I 
C»n promise and atiirm, thai it must be no ordinary 
craving of the latter shall ever make me >lo any thing 
injurious to the honest fame of the former. Whatever 
■Uty b« my failiogt, for failings iir« a part of human 



nature, may they everbetnose of a generous heart 
and an independent mind ! It is no fault ot mine that 
i was born to dependence; nor is it Mr. G-— '• 
chiefest praise that he can command influence ; but it 
is Ills merit to bestow, not only with the kindness of t 
brother, but with the poliiuness of a gentleman ; and ' 
trust it shall be mine to receive with thaiikfuhiess, aua 
remember with uudiminiihed gratitude. 



No. ex. 



FROM THE REV. G. BAIRU. 



London, 8th February, 1791. 



SIR. 



1 trouble you with this letter to inform you that 1 
am in hopes of being able very soon to bring to the 
press, a new edition (long since talked of) of Michael 
Bruce's Poems. The profits of the edition are to 
go to his mother— a woman of eighty years of age — 
poor and helpless. The poeiris are to he publisheti by 
Rubscription ; and it may be possible, I think, to 
make out a 2s. 6d. or 3e. volume, with the assistance 
of a few hiilierlo unpublished verses, which I have got 
from the mother of the poet. 

But the design I have in view in wriline to you, is 
not merely to inform you of these facts, it is to solicit 
the aid of your name and pen, in support of the 
scheme. Tlie reputation of Bruce is already high 
with every reader of classical taste, and I shall be 
anxious toguaid against tarnishing his character, by 
allowing any new poems to appear that may lower it. 
For this purpose iheMSS. 1 am in possession of, have 
been submitted to the revision of some whose critical 
talents 1 can trust to, and 1 mean itiil to aubmil them 
to others. 

May I beg to know, therefore, if you will take the 

trouble of perusing the MSS.— of giving your opinion, 
and suggesting what curtailments, al'leiations, ot 
amendments, occur to you as advisable ? And will 
you allow us to let it be known, that a few lines by' 
you will be added to the volume? 

I know the extent of this request. It isbold tomuke 
it. tint I have this consolation, that though you tee 
proper to refuse it, you will not blame ma.for having 
iijade it ; you will see my apology in the motive. 

May I just add, that Michael Bruce is one in whose 
company, from Lis past appearance, you would not, I 
am convinced, blush to be found ; and as I would sub- 
mit every line of his that should now be piililishrd, to 
your own criticisms, you would be assured that nothing 
derogatory, either to him or yon, would be adroi'.teU in 
.hat appearance he may make in future. 

You have already paid an honourable tribute to 
kindred gtniiis, in Fergusson ; I fondly hope that the 
.^lothe^ of Bruce will experience your patronage 

1 wish to have the subscription-papers ciiculated hy 
theUlhof .March, Bruce's birthday, which I under- 
stand some friends in Scotland talk ihi* year of obser- 
ving— at that .time it will oe resolved, I imHeine, to 
place a plain humble stone, over his grave. This at 
least I trust you will agree to do — to furnish, in a few 
couplets, an i-.scrjpdon for it. 

On these points may I solicit an answer as early aa 
possible .'' a short delay might disappoint us in procur- 
ing that relief to the mother, which is the object of the 
whole. 

You will be pleased to address for me under cover to 
the Duke of Aihole, Loudon. 



P. S. Have you ever seen an engraving pnbli^hea 
here some time ago. from one ol your poems " O Oitm 



LETTiiRS. 



105 



MM t»rft;" Jf ywi ha>e not, I shall liave Ihe pleasure givingTHige the viciory. ! should have hewi inortirt«tf 
of iendiug it to you. <•" i'"= S'^t^'Hl n you Imd iioi. 



No. CXI. 

TO THE REV. G. BaIRD. 

In answer to the foregoing. 

Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in such a 
nciilaiiiig style, ou the business of poor Bruce.'' Dou't 
1 ki'ow, and have 1 not fell the many ills, the peculiar 
ills, .hat poetic flesh ie heir to i You shall have your 
choice of all the unpublished poems , have ; and ha 
your leuerhad my direction so as t" have reached nie 
•oouer (it only came to my hand this moment) I should 
have directly put you out of suspense o.t the subject. 
I only ask thai some prefatory advertisement in the 
book, as well as the subscription bills may bear, that 
the publication is solely for the benetit of Bruce's 
mother. 1 would not put it in the power of ignorance 
to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a 
share in the' work for mercenary motives. Nor need 
you give me credit for any remarkable generosity in 
my part of the busuiess. 1 have such a host of pecca- 
dilloes, failings, follies, and backslidings (anybody but 
myself might perhaps give some of them a worse appel- 
lation,) that by way of some balance, however tririuig, 
in the account, I am fain to do any good that occurs in 
my very limited power to a fellow-creature, just for 
Ihe selfish purpose of clearing a little the vista of retro- 
spection. 



No. CXII 

TO DR. MOORE 

Ellisland, Tli/i February, 1791. 
I do noi know, Sir, whether you are a subscriber to 
Grose'H Antiquities of Scotlrind. If you are, the en- 
closed poem will not be altogether new to you. Cap- 
tain Grosd did me the favour to send me a doxen copies 
of the proof sheet, of which this is one. Should you 
have read the piece before, still this will answer ihe 
principal end 1 have in view I it will give me another 
opportunity of thanking you for all your goodness to 
the rustic bard ; and also of showing you, that the 
abdities you have been pleased to commend and patron- 
b.e, and are still employed in the way you wish. 

The El"gy on Captain Henderson is a tribute to the 
memory of a man 1 loved much. Poets have in this 
the same advantage as Roman Catholics ; they can be 
of service to their friends after they have past that 
bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of any 
avail. Whether, after all, either the one or the other 
be of any real service to the dead, is, 1 fear, very 
problematical : but ! am sure they are highly gratify- 
ing to the living : and, as a very orthodox text, I forget 
wherein Scripture, says, " whatsoever is not of faith 
is sin ;" so say I, whatsoever is not detrimental to so- 
ciety, and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver 
of all giioil things, and ought to be received and enjoy 
ed by his creatures with thankful delight. As almost all 
my relisinus tenets originate from my heart. I am 
wonderfully pleased with the idea, that I can still 
k^ep up a tender intercourse with the dearly beloved 
friend, or still more dearly beloved mistress, who is 
gone to the world of spirits. 

The ballad on Q.ueen Mary was oegnn while I was 
busy with Percy's Reliques of English Poeti-y. By 
the way, how much is every honest heart, which has a 
tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for 
your elorious story of Buchanan and Targe ! 'Twas 
•li une'iuivocal prgof at your loyal gallantry of soul 



I have just read over, once more of many times, your 
Zeluco. i marked with my pencil, as 1 went along, 
every passage that pleased me particularly above llie 
rest ; and one, or two I think, which with humhle de- 
ference, 1 am disposed to think unequal to the ineritB 
of the book. 1 have sometimes thought to tran.^ciihe 
these marked passages, oral least so much ol iliem as 
to point where they are, and send themtoyou. ttiici- 
nal strokes that strongly depict the human heart, is 
your and Fielding's province, beyond any other iii>v.-l- 
ist 1 have ever perused. Richardson indeed miglit per- 
haps be excepted ; but unhappily, his dramatis per- 
soncB are beings of some other world ; and huwt- ver 
they may captivate the inexperienced romatic laii< y of 
a boy or girl, they will ever, in proportion as we have 
made human uature our study, dissatisfy our riper 
minds. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty 
tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have lately had the 
interesito get myself ranked on the list of Excise as a 
supervisor. 1 am not yet emphiyed as such, l>nt in a 
few years 1 shall fall into the file ot snpervisoi ship bj 
seniority. 1 have an immense loss in the death of the 
Earl of Glencairn, the patron from whom all my fame 
and good fortune took ils rise. Independent of my 
grateful attachment to him which was indeed so strong 
that it pervaded my very soul, and was entwined with 
the thread of my existence ; so soon as the prince's 
friends had got in, (and every dog, you know, hi's his 
day,)my getting forward in the Excise would have been 
ail easier business than otherwise it will be. Though 
ihis was a consummation devoutly to be wished, yet, 
thank Heaven, 1 can live and rhyme as I am ; and as to 
my boys, poor little fellows I if I cannot place them on 
as high an elevaiion in life as I could wish, I shall, if 1 
am favoured so much of the Disposer of events as to 
see that period, fix them on as broad and independent 
a basis as possible. Among the many wise adages 
which have been treasured up by our Scottish ances- 
tors, this is one of the best, Better be the head o' tht 
commoniLly as the tail o' the gentry. 

But 1 am got on a subject, which, however interest- 
ing to me, is of no manner of consequence to you . so I 
shall give you a shot t poem on tire other page, and dost 
this with assuring you how sincerely 1 have the honour 
to be vours, &c. 



Written on the blank leaf of a book which I present 
ed to a very young lady whom I had formerly charac- 
terized under the denomination of Tht Rosebud. Sea 
roems, p. 67. 



No. CXI II. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

Londtrt, 28«A March, 1791. 
DEAR SIR, 

Your letter of the 18lh of February I received only 
two days ago, and this day I had the pleasure of wait- 
ing on the Rev. Mr. Baird, at the Duke of Atholc s, 
who had been so ol-liging as to transmit it to me, 
with the printed verses on Alioa Church, the Elegy 
on Captain Henderson, and the Epit ph. There 
are many poetical beauties in the former ; whai I 
particularly admire, are the three striking sLmiljes 
from — 

" Or like the snow-falls in the river." 

and the eight lines which begin with 

By this time he was cross the forit/ 



xvl2 



}08 



LETTERS. 



»o exquisitely expressive of the superstition* impres 
stoiis at the cuuuiiy. Aud u>s iw£iii)r-iwu liues irum 

" Coffins stood round like open presses." 

vhich, ill my opinion, are e<]ual to the ingredients of 
Shakspearc's c^uidron in Maciieth. 

As for tiie Elegy, the chief merit of it consists in the 
Tery grapliicaldesciiplion of tlie objects belonging to 
\lie couiiLiy in wiiicli the poet wnles, and which none 
^ut a Sciitiish poet coulil Imve described, and none b 
A real puet, and a dose observer wl i\alure could have 
80 described. 



. There is something original, and to me wonderfully 
pleasing in the Epitaph. 

I remember yuii once hinted before, what you repent 
in your last, that you liad made some reinarlis on 
Zeluco on ilie maigiii. 1 should be very glad to see 
them, and regret you did not' send them before the lam 
edition, which is just publUhed. I ray transcribe Ihein 
forme: 1 sincerely value your opinion very highly, 
and pray do not suppress Oiie ol these in which yon 
censure the seiuimeiit or expression. Trust me it will 
breali no squares l>eiween us — 1 am not alcin to the 
bishop of Grenada. 



I must now mention what lias beeu on my mind for 
■ome lime : I caiinut help thinking you imprudent, in 
■cattering abroad so many copies ol your verses. It 
18 must natural to give a few to confidential fiieiuls, 
particularly to t hone who are connecleil with the sub- 
ject, or who are perhaps tiiemselves the subject ; but 
this ought to be done under inumise not to give other 
Copies. (Jf the poem you sent me on (Aoeen Mary, 1 
refused every solicitation foV copies, but i lately saw it 
in a newspaper. My motive ot caiilioniiigyoii on this 
■iibject, is, that! wisli to encase you to collect all 
your Ingiiive pieces, not already priiittd ; and, after 
they have been re-considered, and polished to the ut- 
m'lsi of your power, I woulil have you publish them by 
another siihscriptiun : in promoting of whicQ i wiUex- 
«ri myself with pleasure. 

In your future compositions I virlsh you would use 
the modern Kiighsh. You have shown your ptwers 
ill Scottish sufricieiiily. Although in certain subjects 
it gives additional zest to the humour, yet il is lost to 
the Knglish ; and why should yon write only for a part 
ol the Island, when you can command itie admiration 
of the wlioie I 

If you chance to write to my friend Mrs. Diinlop of 
Duiiiop, 1 beg ti) be artectionaiely remembered lo her. 
Slie must not judge of the warmih of my seiiiiments 
respecting her by the number of my letters ; I hardly 
ever write a hue but on businei^s ; and 1 do not 
know that I should have scribbled all this to you, 
bill for the business (lart, that is, lo instigate you to 
a new publication ; and to tell you, that when yuu 
have a sutiicient number to make a volume, you should 
icl your friends on getting subscriptions. I wish I 
could have a few hours' conversation with you— I have 
many ihings to say wliich I cannot write. If ever I go 
tc .SvJllaiid, 1 will let you know, that you may meet 
me at your own bouse, or my friend Mrs. Hamilton, 
or both, 

Adieu, my dear, Sir, &c. 



No. CXIV. 

TO THE REV. ARCH, ALISON. 
Eliialcnd, near Dumfriea, Uth Feb. 1791. 

Sin, 

You must, by this time, have set me down as one of 
the most ungrateful of men. You did me the honour 
to present mo with a book which does honour to «ci- 
•Me and '.be iulelleaual powers ol DUiu, a.od i b&«i 



not even »o much as acknuwUdged the receipt oTit.— 
'i'he fact is, you youibcif arc lo blani>r for it. Planer- 
cd as I was by your lellintt me that vuu wislied to hava 
my opinion ot I'lie work, iheold sjiirituiil t.iieiiiy of man- 
kind, who knows well tliiU vainly is one ol the sin* 
tliat most easily besel nie, |iih it iiiiu my head lupoii* 
der over the peifjriiiaiice with the look out ol a criiic, 
and todraw up, foisuiilli. a dee|)-leBriied riij;esi of Slrio- 
tures, on a conipusitjon, of which, m lacl, iiniil I read 
the book, 1 did not even know the lirat principles. I 
own. Sir, that, nt lirai glance, several ol your pieposf 
tioiis startled me as paradoxical. That the mart-ial 
clangor of a trumpet had sumethiiie in it vastly more 
grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twiiigleiwangle 
of a Jew's-harp; that the delicate flexure of a ro8« 
twig, when the Imlf-blowii fiower is heavy wiih the 
tears of ihe dawn, was infinitely mure beaulilnl and 
elegant than the upright stub of a burdock and that 
from somelhing innate and iiidepemlent of all ns.^ocia- 
tion of ideas ; — these I had set down as irrefraeiible, 
orthodox truths, until perusing your book slioi.k my 
faith. In short. Sir, except Euclid's E/cmetits of 
Oeoinetiy, which I made a shift lo uuiavelliv my 
fatlisr's lire side, in the winter eveiiiiies of the (irsi sea- 
son I held the. plough, 1 nevei read a l>iM.k wbich gave 
me such a quantum of inl'ornialioi., and Hiliteflsoniuch 
to my Slock o! ideas, as yoin " £«« y.v "n the pri ci- 
pies 'of Tiste." One thing. Sir, you luiist I'lugive iny 
meiitionine as an unconimuii merii in ihe work, 1 
mean the language. To clntlie abstnui piiiln»ouliy in 
elegance of style, sounds soineihin" like a ii'inrailiriion 
in lerms ; but you have convinced lae ihat they ar« 
quiif compatible. 

I enclose ynu some poetic bagatelles of my late orm 
position. The one in print is my first essay in the w»J 
of telling a tal«. 

1 am, Sir, &c. 



No. CXV. 

Extract of a Letttr 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

l-Zik MuTch. 1791. 
If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, W 
me have them. For my own part, a thing that 1 haw» 
just composed always appears through a double por 
tion of that partial medium in which an author wil 
ever view his own works. I believe, in general, novel 
ty has somethint! in it that inebriates the fane , and 
not unfreqiieiiily diKsipales and fumes away like uihel 
intoxicaiion, and leaves the poor patient, as usuiil, 
with an aching heart. A sliiking instance of this might 
be adduced in the revoliilion of many a hymeneal hon- 
ey-moon. But lesi I sink into stupiil prose, and so 
saerilegionsly inlrude on the office of my parish priest, 
I shall till up the page in my own way, and give 
you anrther song of my late composition, which will 
appear, perhaps, in Johnson's work, as well as the 
former. 

Vou must know a beautiful Jacobite air. Therein 

never bi- pence till J':mie comes k me. \\ hen politi- 
cal combustion censes to be the object of princes »i d 
patriots, it then, you know becomes the lawtul prty ol 
historians and poets.* 



If yon like the air, and if the stanras hit your fancy, 
you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how much yoti 
would oblige me, if, by the charms of your delightful 
voice, you wo.ilrl give my honest cfrusion to '• the ine-^ 
mory of joys that are nasi !" to I lie lew friepds whoiB 
you indulge in tba: pleasure. But I have scribblen ou 
'till 1 hear the clock has intimated the near approach 
oi 

* Here followed a copy of the Song printed in p. dS 
of the Poems. " By you caatle wa',' ' &e* 



LETTERS. 



Jt>7 



•* That hour, o' night'* black arch the key-stane." 
flo, good iiighi to you ! sonn<:i be your sleep, and fieleci- 
tal>Ie your dreams ! A-^ropos. how do you like this 
thought in a ballad I li:ive just now on the tapis ? 

I look to the west wlien I gae to rest. 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be ; 

Tor far in the west is he 1 lo'e best. 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me 1 



Good nignt, once more, and God bless you I 



No. CXVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EllUland, lllh April, 1791. 
1 am once more able, my honoured friend, to return 
you, with my own band, thanks for the many iiisiau- 
ces of your friendship, and particularly for your kind 
unsiety in this last disaster that my evil genius had in 
store lor me. However, life is chequered — joy and sor- 
row — for on Saturday last, Mrs. Burns made me a 
present of a fine boy, rather stouter, but not so band- 
some as your godson was at his time of life. Indeed I 
look on your little namesake to be my chef (f (euore in 
that species of manufacture, as I lo.'k on Farno' Shun- 
ter to be my staudanl perfoiniance in the poetical line. 
'Tis true both the one and uie other discover a spice ol 
roguish waggery that might, peihajis, he as well spar- 
ed : but then they also sliow, in my opinion, a frjrce of 
genius, and a finisliing polish, that I despair of ever 
excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting stout again, and laid 
as lustily about her to-day at brcaklasi, as a leajier 
from the corn ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and 
Dlessingof our hale sprightly damsels, that are bred 
among the hay and henlher. We cannot hope for that 
highly polished irdnd, that charming delicacy of soul, 
which is found among the female world in the more 
elevated stations ol life, and which is certainly by far 
the most hewiiching charm in the lainous ceslus of Ve- 
nu.s. It is. indeed, such an inesliinable treasure, that 
where it can be had in its native heavenly purity, un- 
siained by some one or other of the many shades of af- 
fectation, and unalloyed by .<ome one or other of the 
many species ol caprice, I declare to Heaven, I sliould 
think it cheaply puiclmsed at the expense of every oth- 
er earthly good 1 Bui as this aneelic creature is, I am 
uM-aJd, extremely rare in any station and rank of life, 
and totally ili-nied to such an huintile one as mine : we 
meani-r mortals musi put up wiih the next rank of fe 
male exctlleiice — as fine a figure and face we can ;)ro- 
duceasany rank of lile whatever : rustic, native giace ; 
unaffecieil modesty, and unsullied puriiy ; nature's 
mother wit, and the rudiments of taste; a simiiliiiiy 
of soul, unsuspicious of, because unafquainted wii'h 
the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disengtiuious 
World ; and the dearest charm of all the rest, a yield- 
ing sweetness of disposition, and a generous warmth 
ol neart, grateful for love on our part, and ardently 
glowing with a more than equal return ; these, with a 
liealthy frame, a sound, vigorous constiluliou, which 
your higher ranks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are 
the channs of lovely woman in my humble walk of 
life. 

This is tho greatest effort my broken arm has yet 
made. Do kt me hear, by first jiost, how cher petit 
M-i ifieui comes on with hi.< sruall-pox. Mr;( Al- 
mighty goodiicsa ijieserve and restore him I 



No. CXVII. 

TO 

OE.AK SIR, 

I am exceedingly to blame in not writing yon long 
ag« ; tiiit the truth is, that I am the most indolent of 
•ii bumau Ufinga i and wbsn I matrteulat« ia lb« her- 



ald's office, I intend that my supporters shall be lw«» 

sloths, my crest a olow-worm, and the motto, " Deil 
lak the lortmost !" So much by way of apology for 
ma thanking you Sooner lor your kind execution of my 
commission. 

I would hare sent yon tlie poem : but somehow or 
other it found iis way into me jvublic pajiers, where 
you mu*t have Been it. 



I am BTer, dear Sir, yonrs sincerely, 
ROBERT 1JUR^S. 



No. CXVIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM 

UthJur,e,\1Z\. 
Let me interesit you, my dear Cunninslnm, in be- 
halfof the gentleman who waits on vou with this. I e 
is a Mr. Clarke of Moffat, princ'ii.al school-master 
there, and is at present sutTering severely wiiWr the 
' ' * * * of one or two powerful individuals 
of his employers. He is accused of harshness to * ' • • 
that were placed under his care. Uod helji the teach- 
er, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such as my 
friend Clarke, when a booby father presents him wiih 
his booby son, and insists on lighting up the ravs of 
science in a fellow's head whose skull is imper-^ious 
and inaccessible by any other way than a posiiivg 
fracture with a cudgel : a lellow whom, in fact, it sa- 
vours of impiety to attempt making a schola- of, as 
he has been marked a blockhead in the book of late, 
at the Almighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat school are the ministers, ma. 
gistrates, and town-council of Edinburgh ; and as the 
business comes now before ihem, let me beg my dearest 
friend to do every thing in his powerto serve ihe inter- 
ests of a man of genius and worih, and a man whom I 
particularly respect and esteem. You know some 
good lellov.s among the magistracy and council, 



but particularly you have much tosav with a reverend 
gentleman, to whom you have Ihe honour or being very 
nearly related, and whom this country and age have 
had the honour to produce. 1 need not name ihe his- 
torian of Charles V." I tell him, through the medium 
of his nephew's inHuence, that Mr. Clarke Is a gentle- 
man who will not disgrace eveii Ins patroiiaae. I 
know the merits of '.he cause thurouahly, and sav it, 
that my iVjeiid if falling a sacrifice io'|ueiudiced Igno- 
rance, and ••'-*•. God help the clnldren of~(le- 
pendeuce ! Hated and persecuted by their enemies, 
and too often, a'las ! almost unexceptionably, received 
by their friends wiih disrespect and reproach, under 
the thin disguise of cold civdity and humiliating ad- 
vice. () ! tube a sturdy savage, stalking in the priile 
of his independence, amid the solitary wikU of hi* de- 
serts ; rather than in c.vilized life ; helplessly to 
tremble for a subsistence, jirecarioiis as tlie caprice of 
a fellow-creature I Kve'-y man has his virtues, and 
no man is without his failings ; aiiu curse on tliat pri- 
vileged plain-dealing of friendship, which in the hour 
of my calamiiy, cannot reach forth the htliiing hand, 
wiihoulat the same time ,,oiiiting out those failinta, 

I |:rpsent distress. My frienfls lor sucl\ the woi M rails 
ye, anil such ye tliink yonrsclvrs to l.'e pass bv my 
virtues if you" please, but do, also, spare my lollies': 
til's first will witness in my breast for themselves, and 
tlie last will give pain eniuigh to the ingenuous mind 
without you. And since deviating more or less I torn 
the paths of propriety and rectitude must be incident 
to human nature, do thou. Fortune put i; in my po-*. 
er, always from myself, and of mysel-f, to bear the 
consequences of those errors 1 I do nut want to be n. 

* Dr. BobertaoB was nacU to Mr. Cutminghaa 1^ 



109 



LETTERS. 



dejienrtent tnat T may sin, but I want to be iiidepen- 
j'eiit ill riiy sifihing 

'l'i> i-eliifii, in this nimViUnj letter, to the subject I 
SPt lint wUll, let in>^ l-ec.iriiilei|il iliy tl lend, Mr. I 'iiif-kf, 
to y.iiii- acii'irtiiiMiice ami ;;•> "I i>;tiies ; liis n-O' lli ^iiti 
l!fs liirii lo I'le one, aiiii his ifiriiii le v/i\ iiitiii ihe 
oilier. 1 long much to hear train you — Adieu ! 



No. CXiX. 

FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Dryburgh Abbey, Vlth June, 1791. 
Lord B;ichan has (he pleasure to invite Mr. Burns 
to make cne at the coronation of the hiisi of 'rhomson, 
on Eil'nan Hiil, on the 22il of September ; for which 
day, perhaps, his muse may inspire an ode suited to 
the occasion. Suppose Mr'. Burns should, leaving the 
Nitli, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at 
the iieap-est point from his farm— and, -.vandeiing along 
the pastoral hanks of 'rhomson's pure parent stream, 
catch iiispiratiori on Ihe ilevious walk, till he finds 
Li>rd Bucliai. silting on ihe ruins of Dryl.i. rah. There 
the comnieiiilatur will give him a hearty welcome, and 
try to lighl his Umji nt the pure ^MdK of native Be:iius 
npin Ihe aliar ol Caledonian vntue. This [)oetical 
fierrtinliulatiou of ihe Tweed, is a thought of the late 
Sir Gilbert KHi.)t's and of Lord Minlo's, followeil out 

wh 1 havius I^eeii wiili l.ord Buchan lately, the project 
was renewed, ai-.d will, they hope, be executed iu the 
manner proposed. 



No. CXX. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

My LORD, 

Laiigii.ige sinks under the ardour of my feelings 
when 1 would thank your Lordship for the honour 
you have done nie in jnvitiii<; ine to make one at the 
coron.ition of the husi of TliouMoii. In my tiist enthu- 
■ iasin iu reading the card y in illd me the honour to 
write to me, I oveilookeil every obstacle, and deter- 
mined to jio ; bill I fear it will iioi lie in my power. A 
T^eek or two's rthseiice, in the very muldle of my liar- 
vjsl, IS what I much doubt i dare not venture on. 

Voiir Lordship hints at an ode for the occasion : but 
who could wiiie alter Collins.-' I read over hi< verses 
to the inemoiy of I'lioms ui, and despaired, i got, in- 
ilied, t.i ihe'length of three or four stanzas, in the 
way of address to the shade of the hard, on crowning 
his bust. I shall trouble your Lordship with the sub 
jellied copy of them, which, 1 am afraid, will be hut 
t:o convincing a proof bow unecpial 1 am to the task. 
I'owever, it affoids mean opporionity of approaching 
your Lordship, and declaring how sincerely and grate- 
fully i hdve the honour to be, &c. 



No. CXXI. 



FROM THE SAME. 

Di-ybuigh Abbey, ISth September, 1791. 
SIR, 

Yiiiir address to the shade of Thomson bus been well 
received by the public; an. I though 1 sh,.iild disap 
pr.ive iif Viiur allowiui 'egasus to ride with you off Ihe 
field of yiur honourable and useful pofeisiou, yet 1 
cannot resist an impulse which 1 feel av, this moment 
to suggest to your Muse, Hiroest Home, as an excel- 
Wnl subject for hergraieful song, in which the peculiar 
aspect and manners of oor country might furnish an 
eicelleiit portrait and landscape of Scotland, for the 
•mploynient of happy moments of leisure aad rec/ie» 
from your mora iaipartaal occupatiooa. 



Your Halloween, and Saturday Night, wiii reman 
to distant ['osterity as interesting pictures of rural in 
imconce an I happiness in vour native Country, and 
were happily wraien in the dialect of ihe people; but 
// ruit:l Home, being suited to de.scripiivt pueliy, ex 
oept, wiieie colloqui.tl, may e.scrt|ie the disguise of f 
dialect which adiniis of no elegance or dignity of ex 

H scene so gladdening and picturesque, with all the 
concomitant local position, landscape and coxiome ; 
contrasting the peace, improvement, and happiness 
of the borders of the once hostile nations of Britain, 
with their former oppressirn and misery ; and show- 
ing, in lively and beautiful colonis, the beauties and 
joys of a rural life. And as the nnvitiattd heart la 
naturally disposed to overflow witfi gratitude in the 
moment of prosperity, such a subject would furnish 
you with an amiable opportunity of perpetuating the 
names of Glencairn, .Vliller, and your other eminent 
benefactors ; which, from what I know of your spirit, 
and have seen of your poems and letters, will not devi- 
ate from the chastity of praise that is so unilornily 
united to true taste and genius. 

lam Sir, &c 



No. CXXII. 

TO LADY E. CUNNINGHA 

MY LADY, 

I would, as usual, have availed myself of the privl 
lege your goodness has allowed me, of (lending you any 
thing 1 compose in my poetical way ; but as I had re- 
solved, so Foon as the shock of my ii reparable loss 
would allow me, to pay a tribute to my late benefac- 
tor, I determineil to make that the first'pieLe I should 
do myself the honour of sending you. Had the wing of 
my fancy been equal to the anlonr of my heart, the 
enclosed had been much more worthy your perusal : 
as it is I beg leave to lay it at your Ladyship's fee!. 
As all the world knows rny obligations to the Karl of 
Glencairn, I would wish to show as openly that my 
heart glows, and shall ever glow with the most grate- 
ful sense and reineinbrunceof his Lordship's goodness. 
The sables I d'tl myself the honour to wear to his 
Lordship's memory, were not the '• mockery uf wo.'' 
Nor shall my gratitude perish with me '. If, among 
my cliililren, I shall have a son that has n heart, he 
shall hanil It down to his child as a family honour, and 
a fanilv debt, that mv dearest existence 1 owe to lh« 
nuble house of Glencairn I 

I was about to say, my Lady, that if yon think th* 
(loein may venture to See the licht, 1 would, in sum* 
way or other, give it to the world.* 



No. CXXIII. 

TO MR. AINSLIE. 
MY DEAR AINSLIE, 

Can you minister to a minil diseased ? Can yon, 
amid the honors of penilenre, regret, remorse, head- 
ache, nausea, ami all the re^t of the d d hoondi 

of hell, that beset a poor wretch who has been guilty of 
the sill of drunkenness — can you speak peace toatruU" 
bled soul ? 

Miserable perdu that I am ! I have tried every 
thing that used to amuse me, but in vain : here must I 
sit a monument of the vengeance laid up in store for .afl 
wicked, slowly counting every check of the dock a* 't 

* Ttie poem enclosed Is published. See " Tm !<•• 
iiMut for James Karl of GUncaira." Poaau. f M 



LETTERS. 



•Itfvljr— ilowly, namben over Iheae lary «coun(lre!s of 
bui4rii, who J 11 them, are ranked up before me, ev- 
try one at bis neiglibonr'; backside, and every one 
win a burden of anguish on his back, to pour on my 
dcvole.l heail—rtud ihere is none lo pily me. My 
wife scolds ine ! my Uusniejs i.inne'iis me, ;.. id my 
(ii:» Come stiirnit; me in Hit'. Nice, tvciy one lelliiig a 

ill guess 



. — VVl 
ease, ; 



tven ' ' ■ has losl lis puw 
tumeihing jt iny hell witlii 

gaii iilioan/cs liiiii E/H/raen, bin the slair/.as fuil 
joyed and unfinished from iny listless iuns;ue ; a 
1 luckily thought of reading over an old letter of youi s 
that lay by me in my book case, and I felt SDmething, 
for the firs: time since 1 opened my eyes, of pleasurable 
existence. Well— 1 negin to breathe a little, since I 
began to write yon. How are you .-' and what are yon 
doing.-' now g'lies Law ? ^ ;3,-o/>os, lor onnexion's 
sake, do not address lo me supervisor, for that is aji 
liunour I cannot pretend to— I am on the list, as we 
call it, for a supervisor, and will be called out by and 
by to act as one : but at present I am a simple ganger, 
though t'other day 1 got an appointment to an excise 
division of 25/. per ami, better than the rest. My pre- 
■eiii iiicoiriu, down money, is 70/. p^r ann. 



I1.1TS one ar twn good fellows here whom you 
vould be glad to know. 



No. CXXIV. 

PROM SIR JOHN WHITEPOOUD. 

Near Mai/bole, 16th October, 1791 . 
SIR, 

Accept of my thanks for your larour, with the La- 
ment on the death of my much-esteemed friend, and 
your worthy patron, the perusal of which pleased and 
ariected me much. The hues addressed to me are very 
flattering. 

1 have always thought it most natural to suppose 
(and a strong argument in favour of a future exist- 
ence) that when we see an honourable and virtuous 
man labouring under bodily infirmities, and oppressed 
by the frowns ^f fortune in this world, that there was 
a happier state beyond the grave ; where that worth 
and honour, which were neglected here, would meet 
with their just reward ; and where temporal irdsfor- 
tunes would receive an eternal recompense. Let us 
cherish this hope for our departed friend, and moder- 
ate our griel for that loss we have sustained, kno'.ving 
that he cannot return to us, but we may go to hira. 

Remember me to your wife ; and with every good 
wish for the prosperity of you aad your family, believe 
me at all liinea, 

Your most sincere Iriend, 

JOHN VVlilTEFOORD. 



No. CXXV. 

FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESa. 



the time I was In London, absolutely put It otit of mf 

power. But to have done with apologies, let m^ new 
endeavour to prove myself in some degree ri^ervinj 
of the very flatteiingcoinplimenl you |ii;y ine, by giving 
you at least a frank and candid, if it should not be a 
judicious, cniiclsin on the poems you sciil me. 



, truly 
;<eM op 



The balla.l of T.'ie WhUtlc '.s, in mv 
exceilciit. 'I'he old tradition winch you 
IS the best adiipieii for a Bacciianalian 
any I ever met witii, and you have done it lull juaiice. 
In the lirsi place, the sii'okes of wit arise ii«niiall» 
\r<^m the subject, and are uncommonly happy. For 
example, 

" The bands grew the lighter the more they were wet^ 
" Cynthia hinleil he'd find them next morn." 
•' Tho' Fate said — a hero should perish in light ; 
" So up rose bright ; h(£bus,"and down lell the knight," 



ly liapjiy in the dls- 
giving each the sen- 



Edinburgh, 27iA November, 1791 . 
DEAR SIR, 

you have mi«;h reason to blame me for neglecting 
till now to acknowledge the receipt of a most agreeable 
packet, containing Tie Whistle, a ballad : and Tke 
X.a;n«ni ; which reached me about six weeks aao in 
London, from whence I am just returned. Your letter 
was forwarded to me there from Edinburgh, where, as 
I observed by the date, it had IaIii for some days. 
This was an additional reason for me to have answered 
t immediately on receiving it ; but the truth was, the 
Bustle of business, engagements, and confusion of one 
kind or another, iu which I found myself iramuiMd all 



In the next jilace, you are 
crimination ol your heroes 

limeiiisand langnai^e siiUaUie to Ins character. And, 
lasily, you have much merit in the delicacy of the pane- 
gyiic which you have com rived to throw on each of 
the dramatU persona, perfectly appropriate to hi* 
character. The comiilimeiit to Sir Hoberi, the bhim 
soldier, is particulai ly fine. In short, this coinposi- 
lion, ill my opinion, does you great honour, and I ste 
not a line or word iu it which 1 could wish to Le al- 
tered. 

As to the Lament, T suspect from some expressioii» 
in your letter to me that you are more doiibtliil wi'.li 
respect to the merits of this piece Ihaii of the other ; 
ami ( own I think you have reason; for alihough it 
ains some beauti.ul stanzas, as the first, "I'he 
.1 blew hollow," &c. ; the filth, " Ve scaiter'd 
birds ;" the thirteenth, '■ Awake thy la?i sail voice," 
&c. ; yet it appears to me faulty as a whole, and iiife- 
ior to several of those you have already publislied in 
he same strain. My principal objection lies against 
the plan of the piece. I think it was unnecessary and 
improper lo put the lamentation in the mouth of a fic- 
titious character, an aged baid. — It had been much 
better lo have lamented your patron in your own per- 
son, to have expressed your geiniine leclinas for the 
loss, and to have spoken the language of naiore, rather 
than Ihat of fiction, 011 the subject. Compare this wiili 
your poem of the same title in your printed voliinoe, 
which begins, O thou pale Orb ; and observe what it 
is that forms the charm of that composilion. It is that 
it speaks the language of tru'h and of n ttur-. Tne 
change is, in my opinion injudicious too in this rt -«ct, 
that an ag d bard has much less need of a patrc .and 
a protector than n yo ng jiie. I have tluis gives you, 
with much freedom, my opinion of bcih the pieces. I 
should have made a very ill return to the coinpliment 
you paid me, if 1 had given you any other than my 
genuine aentimeuts. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear from you whrM 
you find leisure ; and 1 beg you will believe me evtf 
dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. CXXVI. 



TO MISS DAVIES. 

It is impossible, Madam, that the generous warmth 
and angelic purity of your youthful mind can have any 
idea of that moral disease under which I unhappily 
must rank as the chief of sinners ; I mean a turpitude 
of the moral powers that may be calleil a lethargy uf 
conscience — In vain Remorse rears her horrent crest, 
and rouses all her snakes : beneath the ileadly fixed 
eye ami leaden hand of Indolence, ilieii wildest ire is 
charmed into the torpor of a bat, shimberina out the 
rigours of winter in the chink of a ruine'l wall. Notli- 
ing less, Madam, could have made me so long neglect 
your ohiigiiis commands. Indeed I had one a|M>logy— 
the basatelle was not worth piesi'iiiins;. I'.KSii'ee, SO 
strongly am I iuieiesled iu Mi»s D— — 'i tiil«ftBd 



10 



LETTERS. 



welfa^ In the serioui business of lire, Rtnld its chances 
•(1(1 c.>^iges ; '.hat to make her the subject of a sil- 
ly ball;id, is downright mockery of these ardent feel- 
ing* ; 'lis like an imiieitineiit jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious lleuveii ! why tliis disp.iriiy betwcpn our 
wis:i[-d ami our ij.jiVcrs ! V\liy isihu nuisL ^ntt-rous 
wiih U) m.ike oiiiers litessetl iui|iulcu[ iuni iucrieclual 

Jn niv walks of life I liavc met ivali a few people to 
whom how trlaaiv woulJ I have said— •' Go be happy !'" 
1 know that your htaris huve been wouniled by the 
ecorii of the proud, « hoin accidejit has ))iatcd above 
you — or worse siiil, lu whuse hajids aie, perhaps, 
Jiiaced many ot ilie coinluits o( yuur lite. But lliere ! 
ascend iluit ruck, udrpeudeucc, and look justly down 
on thKirlmleuess of soul. Make the worthless trem- 
ble under your ii-dianalion, ami the foolish sink before 
your contLinpi ; and largely impart tha; happiness lo 
oilirrt. wmoli I am certain, will give>ourselyesso muc# 
pleasuie to bestow." 

Why,<!ear Ma<Iam, mn«t I wake from thisdeligstfiil 
dream.'' Whv, amid mv generous enlhnsiasm, niUsl 
I fiml myself jiour and powerless, ir'tapable of wiu^i.-g 
iiiif tear'irom the eve of pily, or of adding one com- 
(oit to ihcbimil I love '—Out upon the world ! so.yl, 
tliat its attaii-8 are administered .iu ill! They talk 
«f reform ; — good lleaven what a ref um would I make 
tinoiii: the sons, and even the dauehlers of men' — 
Downlinmedialely shuiild go funis from the higli places 
where misbegotten chance has perked them np, and 
Ihroiiiih hie sljMuid ilicy skulk, ever hairnted by their 
lies accom- 
furmida- 
bie cUm, the knaves. I am at u loss what to ilo with 
Ihem : — had 1 a world, there should nut be a. knave in 
ii. X 



Ihroiiih hie shouid ilicy skulk, ever haunted 
native insii:iyiicdiice, as the boily matches 
panied by its shadow. — As for !i much more 



Rut the hand that could give, I wouhl lihernlly (ill ; 
»od I wnuld pour delight on the heart that could kind- 
ly forgive and generously love. 

Still, the inequalities of life are, among men, compa- 
ratively lolei able — bill there is a delicacy, a tender- 
llerness, accompanying every view in which we can 
jilace lovely Woman, that are grated and shocked at 
the rode, capricious dislinctions of fortune. Wn- 
man is the blood royal of life : let there be slight 
flegrees of precedency among them— but let them 
be all sacred. Whether this last sentiment be riglil or 
Wrong, I am not accountable ; It is an original compo- 
nent feature ul my mmd. 



No. CXXVII. 

TO MKS. DUNLOP. 

EllUland, llth Decemisr 17£1. 
Many thanks lo ynu, Madam, for your good news 
respecting the little Huweiet and the mother plant. 1 
ho|.-e my poetic prayei s have been heard, and will be 
answered up lo tlie warmest sincerity of their fullest 
extent ; and then Mrs. Henri will Hnd her bttle dar- 
ting the represenlalive of hi3j--ile parent, iu every thing 
but his abridged cxisiciice. 

I have just finished the following song, which, to 
a ladv the descemlant of Wallace, and many heroes 
of his truly illuslrioiia line, and herself the mollier 
of several soldiers needs neither preface nor apology. 



Scene— A Field of Bntt.'e—Time of the Day, Even- 
ing — the irouni d "nddyi ^ofth viclorioat Antxy 
are supponed to join in the following 

SONG OP DEATH. 
Farewell thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye 
skies, 
Now juy with the broad setting sun 1 



Farewell loves and frinudrhlps ; Te dear toncMr 

tieo, 
Our race of existence is rim ! 

Thou grim king of lerrnrg, thou life's glonmy fo« 

Go frighten the coward ami slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, 

No terrors hast thou to the brave 

Thou strik'st the poor peasanw— he sinks in the 
dark. 

Nor naves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious marie, 

He falls iu the blaze of his fame '. 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in onr 
ham's, 

Our king and sar country lo save — 
While victory shini'S on life's last ebbing « 

O, who would iiu'. die with the brave t' 



The circumstance that gave rise to the foregoing 
Verses, wiis looking over, with a musical friend, M'- 
Doiiald's collect tun of 1 ii:;hlaiid airs, 1 was struck with 
one, an Isle of Sihye tune, entitled OriXH nri /lojg, or, 
Th- Soig of Dentil, to the measure of which I Iiave 
adapted my'staiizas. I have of late composed two or 
three other liitle pieces, wlu'li, ere yon full-orbed 
moon, whose bro.xl impmlent face, now stares at ohi 
inoihcr eartli all ni^lil, shall have shrunk into a mod- 
est crescent, jiim peepiiie lorih at dewy dawn, I shall 
find an hour to transcribe to you. A Dieu je vou* 
commende. 



No. CXXVIII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

5tk January, 1792. 
Von see my hurried life, Madam : I can only com- 
mand siarn of time : however, I am glad of one thing ; 
Miice I finished the other sheet, the political blast ihnl 
threatened my welfare is overblown. I liavs corres- 
ponded with Commiiisioner (iraliam, for the lioard 
jiad made me (lie subject of their animadversions: 
and now I have the pleasure of lid'orming yon, that 
all is set to rislils in that .^nailer. Now us lo these 

inlormers, may the devil be let loose to but 

hold: t was praying most fervently in my last sheet, 
and I iiius'. not so soon fall a swearing iij ihi*. 

Alas ! how little do the wanioiily or idle officious 
think what mischief they do by their malicious insinna- 
tioiis, indiscreet iirpertinence, or ihonghiless blab- 
biugs ! Wha'. a iiitlereiice 'here is in inlriiisic worth, 
candour, benevolence, generosity, kindness— in alt tiie 
charities and all the virtneS; between one class uf hu- 
man beings J<nd another! For instance, the amiabls 
circle I BO lately mixed with in the hospitable hall »'. 

D , their tiCnerous hearis— their uncontaininairc!, 

dignified minds — their informed and polished iinder- 
btandiiiKS— what a contrast, when compared— if such 
comparing were not downiiiihl sacrilege — with the 
soul of the miscreant who can deliberately plot the du- 
slriiction of an honest man that never oHcnded him, 
and with a grin of satislaction see the iinfortunait be- 
ing, his faithful wife and prattling innocents, inriied 
over to beggary and ruin. 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. I had two 
worthy felluws dining with me the other day, w hen I 
Willi great formality, produced my w higmeleriie cup, 
and told them that it had been a family-piece umonj 

< This is a little altered fretu the one iveu l>i p. 83, 
of the Poems. 



LETTERS. 



Ill 



i&«««jsic»!nda«t8ofSirWilUam Wallace. Tlii^ rous. 
fi 8u:..'i an etithii^ia^m, thai they insisted on bum- 
periiis the punch roiiml in it ; and, by and by, never 
Old yoi.r great ancestor lay a Sutfiron more complete- 
ly at rest, thanfor a titnedid your cnp my two t'rleuds. 
A-proposi this 18 the season of wishing. May God 
bless you, my dear friend ! and bless me, the liumbiest 
ftiid sincerest of your friends, by granting you yc 
many returns o.' tUe season ! May all good things a 
tend yon aud your<« wherever they aie scattered over 
the e&rtii 1 



No. CXXIX. 

TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, PRINTER. 

Dumfries, 'ZZd January, 1792. 
I sit down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young lady lo 
you, and a lady m the first rank of fasluDii, too. What 
a task ! to you — who carv no more for the herd of ani- 
mals called yonng ladies, than roii do iur the herd of 
&nimals called young gentlemen. To you — who despise 
and detest the grcupines and combinations of fashion, 
as an idiot painter that seern-< industrious to place 
staring fools and unprincipled knaves in tlm foreground 
of his picture, while men of sense and honesty are tO'i 
Often liirowu in the dimmest shades Mi-s. Riddle, 
who will lake this letter to town with her, and send it 
to you, is a charucterlhat, even in yo ir own way as 
"a iiatHralisi and a philosopher, would be an act^uisi- 
tion to your acquaintance. The lady too is a votary 
of the muses : and as I think myself somewhat of a 
juilge in my own trade, I assure you t ha her verses, 
always correct, and oftep elegant, are much beyond 
the common r>ni ofliie lada po-tess of the day. She is 
a great admirer of your book ^ and, hearing me say 
that I was acquainted with you, she begged to be 
known lo you, as she is just going to pay her first visit to 
our Caledonia.'! capital. I told her that her best way 
was, (o desire her near relation, and your intimate 
friend, Craigdarroch, to have you at his house while 
ehe was there, and lest you migiit think of a lively West 
Ijudian girl of eighteen, as giiis of eighteen too often 
deserve to he thought of, I should lake care to remove 
that prejudice. To be imparliai, however, in appre- 
ciating the lady's merits, she has oise unlucky failing, 
a failing which you will easilv discover as she seems 
rather pleased -with indulging in it ; and a failing that 
you will as easily par<!ou, as it is a sin which very much 
besets yourself; — whei ; she dislikes or despises, she is 
apt to make no more a secret of it, than where she es- 
teems and respects. 

I will not present you with unm>?aning compliments 
of tfi,'; se-TSOn, but I will send you my warmest wishes 
and most ardent prayers, that Fort^n- may never 
throw your s.bsistsnce to the mercy of -a knave, or set 
your c^,arfic;er on the judsmeni of a fool; but that, 
upright and erect, you may walk to an honest grave, 
where men ol letters shall say. Here lies a man who 
did honour to science ! and men of worth shall say, 
Here lies a man who did honour to human nature 1 



cxxx. 

TO MR. W. NtCOL. 

201/, February, 1792. 
O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of 
|jnideiire, full moon of discreliou, and chief of many 
counsellors! How infinitely is thy puddled headed, 
raiile headed, wronc-headed round headed slave indeb 
ted to thy superemiuent goodness, that from the lumin- 
ous pith of tiiyown right-lined reciitude, thou lookest 
nenignly down on an erring wietch,of whom the zig-zag 
Wanderings dcfyall thepowers of calculation, from the 
•imple copulation of units up !o the hidden mysteries of 
"lluxiims : May one feeble rav of that light of wisdom 
which darts from thy semorium straight as the arrow 



of heaven, and brlgnt as the meteor of inspiration, may 
it be my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of tlie 
face and favour of that father of proverbs and master 
laxims, thai antipodeof folly, and magnel among 
the sages, the wise and witty Willie Nicol ! Arneoi 
Amen! Yea, so be il! 

For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing ! 
From the cave of my ignorance, amid the fogs of my 
dulness, ai;d pestilential fumes of my political here- 
sies, 1 look up to thee, as doth a toad through the irou- 
barred lucerne of a pestiferous duneeoii, to the cloud- 
less glory of a summer sun ' Sorely sighing iu bitter- 
ness of soul, I say, wlien shall my name be the quota 
tion ol the wise, and my countenance be the delighi of 
the godly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan's manT 
hills.'" As for him, his works are perfect ; nevfrdidth« 
pen of calumny blur th« fair page of his reputation, 
nor the bolt of haired fly aihis dwelling. 



Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine lamp of 
mygijmmerous understanding, purged from sensual 
appetites and gross desires, shine like the constellation 
of thy iiueiiectual powers! As tor thee, thy thouglus 
are pure, and thy lips are holy. Never did the on- 
hallowed breath of the powers of darkuetss and the 
pleasures of darkness poliule the sacred flame of thy 
sky descended and heaven-bound desires : never did 
the vapours of impurity slain the unclouded serene of 
thy ceriiieau iniagjnaiion. O that like thine were the 
tenor of my life! like thine the teuorof my eonversation ! 
then should no friend fear for my strength, no enemy 
rejoice in my -weakness' then should J lie down and 
rise up, and none to make me afraid. May thy pity 
and thy prayer be exercised for, O thou lamp of wis- 
dom and mirror of morality ! tliy devoted siave.f 



No. CXXXI. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

3d March, 17.92. 
Since I wrote you the last lugrubrious sheet, I have 
had not time to write you farther. When I say thai I 
had not time, thai, as usual, means, that the thre«> 
demands, indolence, business, and ennui, have so 
completely shared my hours among them, as not to 
leave me a five minutes' fragraeui to lake up a pea 



Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying upwards 
with the renovating year. Now I shall in good earnest 
take up Thomson's songs. I dare say he thinks I have 
used him unkindly, and I must own with too much ap- 
[learanceof truth, A-propos .' Do you know the much 
admired old Highland air, called The Sutor's Dock- 
ter > it is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have 
written what 1 reckon one of my best songs to it. I 
will send it to you as it was sung with great applause 
in some fas.'.ionable circles by Major Roberlson of 
Lude, who was here with his corps. 



There la one commission that I must trouble you 
with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a present from a 
departed friend, which vexes me much. I have gotte.i 
one of your Highland pebbles, which I fancy would 
make a very decent one ; and I want to cut my a i mo- 
rial bearing on it; will you be so obliging as inquire 
what will be theexpenSB of such a business.'* I do nol 
know that my name is matriculated, as the heralds 
call it, at all ; but 1 have invented arms for rayself. so ^ 
you know I shall be chief of the name ; and, by coup- 
teay of ScoUund, will likewise be entitled tosujjporu 

• Mr. Nicol. 
t This atralr. of irony was excited by a letter of Mr 
Nicol^ eontalniii^ good advice. 



113 



LETTERS. 



er«. These, however, I do no*, intend having on my 
«eal. I am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, v'le- 
eundum ciTtetn, my arms. On a field, azure, a holly 
bush, seeded, proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe and 
crook, sallier-wise, also proper, in chief. On a wreath 
of the cijlours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig of bay 
tree, proper, for crest. Two mottoes : round the top 
of the crest. Wood notes wild ; at the bottom of the 
shield, in the usual place. Better a we" bush than nae 
bield. By the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean 
the nonsense of painters of Arcadia, but a Stock and 
Horn, and a Club, such as you see at the head of Allan 
Ramsay, in Allan's quartu edition of the Gentle Shep- 
herd. By the by, do you know Allan .'' He must be a 
man of very great genius — Why is he not more known i 
Has he no patrons .-' or do " Pove"ty's cold wind and 
crushing rain beat keen and heavy" on him? 1 once, 
and but once, got a glance of that noble edition of that 
noblest pai^toral in the world ; and dear as it was, I 
mean, dear as to my pocket, I would have bought it ; 
but I was told that it was printed and engraved lor 
subscribers only. He is the ody artist who has hit 
genuine pastoral costume. What, my dear Cunning- 
ham, is therein riches, that they narrow and harden 
the heart so .■" I think, that were I as rich as the sun, 
I should be as generous as the day ; but as 1 have no 
reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than any o'h- 
cr man's, I must conclude that wealth imparts a bird- 
lime quality to the possessor, at which the man, in his 
native poverty would have revolted. What has led 
me to tliis, is the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan pos- 
sesses, and such riches as a nabob or government con- 
tractor possesses, and why they do not form a mutual 
league. Let wealth shelter and cherish unprotected 
merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit 
will richly repay it. 



No. CXXXII 

TOMRS.DUNLOP. 

Annan Water Foot, 'Hid August, 1792. 
Do not blame me for it Madam — my own conscience, 
hackneyed and weather-beaten as it is, in watching 
and reproving my vaaaries, follies, indolence, &c. has 
continued toblcme and punish me sufficiently . 



Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured 
friend, that I coidd be so lost to gratitude for many fa- 
vours ; to esleern for much worth, and to the honest, 
kind, pleasurable tie of, now old acquiiintance, and I 
hope and am sure of progressive, increasing friendship 
— as, for a single day, not to think of you — to ask the 
Fates what they are doing and about to do with my 
much-loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions, 
and to beg of them to be as kind to you and yours as 
Ihey possibly can .' 

Apropos 1 (though how it is apropos, I have not lei- 
sure to explain.) Do you know that I am almost in 
love with an acquaintance of yours ? — Almo5*, ! said 
I — I am in love, souse ! over head and eats, dee|i as 
the most unfathomable abyss of the hnundless ocean ; 
but the word Love, owing to the interminsledoms of 
the good and the bad, the pure and the impure, in this 
world, being rather an equivocal term for expressing 
one's sentiments and sensatiuns, I must do justice to 
the sacred purity of my attachment. Know, then, 
that the heart struck awe ; the distant, humble ap 
proach ; the delight we should have in gazing upon 
&.nd listening to a Messenger of heaven, appearing in 
all the unspotted purity of his celestial home, among 
.he coarse, polluted, far inferiir sons of men, todelivir 
to them tidings that make theirhearts switn in 'yj, and 
their imaginations soar in transport— such, so delight- 
ing and <io pure, were the emotion of my soul on mici- 
ing the other day with Miss L — B--, xour neighbour, 
»t M— — . Mr. B. with his two daugniers accompa 



nied by Mr. H. of G., passing through Dur »• ^ few 
days ago, on their way to Kngland, did mi /t honour 
of calling on me; on which I took my hoi«e (though 
God knows I could ill spare the time.) and accompanied 
them fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and spent th« 
day with them. 'Twas about nine, I think, when I 
left them ; and. riding home, I composed the following 
ballad, of which you will probably think yon have a 
dear bargain, as it will cost you another groat oi 
postage. You must know that there is an old ballad 
beginning with 

" My honnie Lizie Bailie, 
I'll rowe thee in my plaidie." 

So t parodied it as follows, which is literally the first 

Copy, " unanointed, unanneal'd ;" as liamiet says.- 

'• O saw ye bonnie Lesley," &c. 

So much for ballads. 1 regret that you are gone to 
the east country, as 1 am to be in Ayrshire in about a 
fortnight. 'I'his world of ours, notwiihstanding it lias 
many good things in it, yet it has eVer had this ciirsv, 
that two or three people, who would be the ha))pier the 
olteiier they met togeiher, are almost without excep- 
tion, always so placed as never to meet but once or 
twice a-year, which, considering the tew years of a, 
man's liie, is a very great " evil under ihesun," which 
1 do not recollect that Solomon has mentioned in his 
catalogue.of the miseries of man. J hope and believe 
that there is a state of existence beyond tlie giave, 
where the worthy of this life will renew their former 
intimacies, witli this endearing addition, that, " w« 
meet to part iiomure I" 



" Tell us ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be f 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to tbe 
departed sons of men, but not one of liieni has ever 
thought fit to answer the question. " O that sornt 
courteous ghost would blab it out 1" but it cannot be; 
you and I, my friend, must make the experiment by 
ourselves, and for ourselves. Howevei, I am so con- 
vinced that an unsliHken faith in the doctrines of reli- 
gion is not only necessary, by making us belter inm, 
but also by making us happier men, that I shall lake 
every care that your little godson, and every little 
creature that shall call nie father, shall be taught 
them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at thli 
wild place of the world, in the intervals of my labour 
of discharging a vessel of rum from Antigua. 



No. CXXXIII. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, \Oth Septemhcr, 1792. 
No! I will not attempt an apology-- Amid all inf 
hurry of business grinding the faces of the piihlirHn 
and the sinner on the merciless wheel* of the Kxiise ; 
making ballad>, and then drinking, and singing Oiem; 
and, over and above all, the corrsclina the press work 
of two differeiil puhlicfttiuns, still, siill misht have 
stolen five miuule.s to dedicate to one of the first of my 
friends and fellow-crealiires. 1 misht have dune, as I 
do at present, snatched an hour near " witching time 
of night," and scrawled a page or two. I might have 
congratulated my friend on his marriage, or I miglit 
have thanked the Caledonian archers for the honour 
they have done me (though to do myself justice, I in- 
tended to have done both in rhyme, else I had dona 
both long ere now.) \\ei;,lhtn, here is to your good 
health ! for you must know I have set a nipperkin ol 
toddv liy me. iuKt by wiiy of spell. Jo keep aw-y th« 
meik'le h.inird Ileil. <■•• a.r. ■■! hi^ subaltern ijnps wb* 
mav be m 'heir niifhiL r.>uii'1». 



LETTERS. 



J13 



But what •hall T write to vou ? "The voice said, 
Cry I ai.ci I said, Whatsliall' i cry ?".-0, thou spirit! 
whatever i.hou art, or wherever thou maliest tliyself 
"iiible ! bt thiiii a bogle by ihe eerie siile ol an aulil 
thuni, ill the itreary glen ihruimh whicii ilie lieni callaii 
mauit bicliei in his sl'iamiii ruiiielVae llie laulile ' He 
Ihoii a browi ie, set, ul dead of niglit, lo iliy task by 
the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn, where '.lie re- 
perciis-sions oi' thy iron Hail lialt' atiright ihysell as 
Ihoii ijerformest the work of twenty of the sons of men, 
ere the cock-crowing summon thee to thy ample cog ot 
subs'aiilial brose. He thou a kelpie, hauniiiig the i'ord 
or ferry, in the starless night, mixing thy laughing 
yell with the howling of the storm and the roaring of 
the flood, as thou viewest the perils and miseries of 
man on the foundering horse, or in the tumhling boat ' 
tJr, lastly, be thou a ghost, payiii" tliy nocturnal visits 
to the hoary ruins of decayed grandeur ; or performing 
thy inyatic rites in the shadow of the tirtie-worii church, 
while the moon looks, without a cloud, on the silent 
phasily dweliings of the dead around thee ; or taking 
thy stand by the bedside of the villaui, or the murder- 
er, portraying on his dreaming fai.cy, pictures, dread 
fill as the horrors of unveiled hell, and terrible as the 
wrath of incensed Deity ! Come, thou spirit I but not 
ill these horrid torma : come with the milder, gentle, 
easy inspirations which thou breathest lound tlie wig 
sf a prating advocate, or the let' of a tea sipping gos- 
iip, while their tongues run at the liaht horse gallop of 
clish-maclaver for ever and ever — come and assist a 
poor devil who is quite jaded in the attempt to share 
half an idea among half a hundred words ; to fill up 
four quarto pages, while he has not got one single sen- 
tence of recollection, information, or remark, worth 
putting pen to paper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatura) assistance ! 
circled in the embrace of my elbow-chair, my breast 
labours like the bloated Sibyl on her three footed stool, 
and like her too, labours with Nonsense. Nonsense, 
auspicious name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in 
khe mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of phy- 
tic ; and particularly in the sightless soarings of 
School Divinity, who leaving Common Sense con- 
founded at his strength of pinion. Reason, delirious 
with eyeing his giddy flii,ht ; and Truth creeping back 
into the buttom of her well, cursing the hour that ever 
she offered her scorned alliance to the wizard power of 
Theologic Visioi. — raves abroad on all the winds. 
" On earth. Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above opening 
her jealous gales to the nineteen thousandth part of 
the tithe of mankind ! and below, an inescapable and 
inexorable Hell, expanding its leviathan jaws lor the 
vast residue of moitals ! M" t) doctrine! comforta- 
ble and healing to the weary, wounded soul of man I 
y^e sons and daughters of affliction, ye pauvres miser- 
ahlee, to whom day brings no pleasure, and night 
yields no rest, be comforted I " 'Tis but one to nine- 
teen hundred thousand that your situation will mend 
in this world ;" so, alas ! the experience of the poor 
and the needy too often affirms ; and, 'tis nineteen 
hundred thousand to 072V, by the dogmas of ••••••••^ 

that you will be damned eternally in the world to 
come ! 

But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is the 
most nonsensical ; so enough, and more than enough, 
of it. Only, by the by, wiil you, or can you tell me, 
my dear Cunningham, why a sectarian turn of mind 
has always a tendency to narrow and illiberalize the 
heart? They are orderly : they may be just : nay, I 
have known them merciful ; biit still your ihildren of 
sanctity move a mong their fellow-creatures, with a nos- 
tril snuffing putrescence, and a foot spurning filth ; in 
ehort, with a conceited dignity that your titled * * • • 
or any other of your Scottish lordlings of seven centu- 
ries' standing, display when th.ey accidentally mix 
arnons the many-aproned sons nf mechanical fife. 1 
remember, in my uloiiah hoy days, I could not conceive 
it possible that a iiohle lord could be a fool, or a godly 
mati could be a knave. How ignorant are plough- 
boya ! Nay, I have since discovered that a godly wo- 
man may be a ***** ! But hold — Here's t'ye 
a4ain--thie rum is generous Antigua, so a very unlit 
meas'.rum for seandal. 



A propoe ; How do you like, I mean really, like the 
married life.' Ah! my friend, inai-imony is quite a 
, difierent thing from what vuiir love-sick youths »i«l 
■ sighing girls take it lo be I Hui ina. riiiae, we are lol.l, 
is appuiriied by (jckI, anil I i,\uiU i].-\tr i)iuirrel with 
any oi his mstiuilitpiis. I am a liNshando! oldei sianil- 
iiig than y.u, and shall sive you my ulens oi tlu: con- 
jutal »laie (enpusmm,yM kiiuw I uiiinu 1, am, lot . is 



font ; Good Sense, two ; Wit, 
■uqoeiil 



?yt8, fina 
Kiiist loo. 



parts ; 
Goud-i - - — 

soiial 

limbs, graceliri carriage (I would add i 
Ijut that is soon spoiled you know,) all ihese, one ; as 
for the other qualiiies belonging to, or dtlciiding mi, a 
wife, such as Foilone, Connexions, Kdotalioii, ^I 
mean eilocatioii exlraordiiiary,) Family Blond, &c., 
divide tlie two lemaiidng decrees amoii!> them at, you 
please; only remember that all these minor properties 
must be expressed by frctions, lor there is not any 
one of them in the aluresaid scale, entitled lo the dig- 
nity of an i/Utger, 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries—how I late- 
ly met Willi Miss L H , the most beantili.l, 

and her father's family fifteen miles on their join ney 
out of pure devotii;n, to ailiniie the loveliness ol the 
works of God, in such an unequalled dii><ilay of them— 
how, in galliiping home at iiiKlit, I made a baliad en 
her, of which these two stanzas made a part : 

Thou, bonnieL , art a queen, 

Thy subjects we before thee ; 
Thou, bonnie L , art divine, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very Dell he could na scathe 

Whatever wad belang thee I 
He'd look into thy bonnie face, 

And say, " 1 canua wrang thee 1" 

— Behold all these things are written in the chroniclea 
of my imaginations, and shall he read by thee, mr 
dear friend, and by thy beloved spouse, my other dear 
friend, at a more convenient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before designed bosom- 
companion, be given the precious ihiiigs brought forth 
by the sun, and Uie precious tilings brought furiii by the 
moon, and the benignest influences ot the stars, and 
the living streams which flow from the fountains ol lile, 
and by the tree of life, for ever and ever ! Ameu ! 



No. CXXXIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 24;/» September, 17S2, 
1 have l^iis moment, my dear Madam, yours of th« 
twenty-third. All your other kind reproaches, your 
iiews,&c. areoutof my head when 1 read and ihiiik on 

Mrs. H 's situation. Good God ! a heart woniicl- 

ed, helpless yoiingwonian — in a stiaiige, foieieii land, 
a.'id, that land convulsed with every horror that can 
harrow the human feelings — sick— looking, longing for 
a comforter, but finding none — a mother's feelings too 
— but it is too much; tit who wounded (tie only can) 
may he heal !* 



1 wish the farmer great joy of his new acquisition to 
his family, • • • • I cannot say that I giva 
nim joy of his life as a farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer pay- 
ing a dear, ■inconscionable rent, a curnid hfe .' fa to 
a laird farming his own property ; sowing his own corn 

* This much lamented lady was gone to the south ol 
France with her infant sod j where she lied seen tfur 



14 



LETTERS. 



n hope ; and reaping it, in spile of brittle weather, in 
glacinKSS : kiiowic.j; lliat mnie can say iiiiio iiim, " what 
dost thou !" — lnUeiiiiiir his herds ; sheariiighia flocks ; 
rejoicing at Clirisiiiius : aii.l begeiucij; sons and (laii;iii- 
ters, unl;i he i.etlie vcnerathd, gi a y-liaired leailerof a 
litlia tiibe — lis a heavenly hie !— Bnidevil talte the lite 
of reaping the iVtnts that another must eat ! 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to seeing 
Sie, when I aiike my Ayrshire visit. I cannot leave 

Airs. LJ ■ nil 111 her nine months' race is ni;i, which 

may perhaijs be in three or lour weeks. She, too, seems 
defcenninej lo make me the |iatriaiohal leader of a 
band. However, if lieaven will be so obliging as to 
let ine have tiiein m proportion of three boys lo one 
girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. 1 hope, if 1 
am spared with then), losho.v a set of boya that will do 
lioiiour 10 my cares and name ; bul 1 am not equal to 
the task ol rearing girls. Besides, 1 am loo poor : a girl 
should always have a (ortniie. Apropos ; your little 
godson is thriving cliarmingly, but is a very devil. He, 
though two years younger, has completely mastered hia 
brother. Ruben i.t hideed the mildest, gentlest ciea- 
tnre I ever saw. He has a most surprising memory, 
■ lid is quite the pride of his schoolmaster. 

You know how reudily we gst into prattle upon a 
• ubject dear to onrhearl : You Can excuse it. God 
bless you mid yours I 



No. CXXXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Supposed to have been written on the Death of Mrs. 
U ,Urd, lighter. 

I had been from home, and did not receive yonr let- 
ter iiMiil my reli'.r.i llie other day. VV'h.ii sh.ill I say 
tocomlori yon, my much valued, mucii alHicied friend ! 
I can hnt grieve with you ; con^olaiion I have none lo 



offer 



i>lds ont to tlie chil 



dreii of affliction— C/u/t/re« of njjliclion .'—how jnsi 
the expression ! and like every ollitr lainily, they have 
mailer.* among them, which they hear, see, and feel in 
a serious, all-importanl manner, of wh.ch the world 
has mil, nor cares to have, any idea. Tliu woild looks 
iiiditiereiilly on, makes liie passing remark, and pro- 
ceeds tu the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wi.ih for many years .•" 
What is it hnt to dran existence iintii our joys gi adnai- 
ly expire, and leave us In a night of misery ; like the 
elooni which blots out the stars one by one, from llie 
face of night, and leaves U3 wittioul a ray of comfort in 
the huwluig waste I 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You shall soon 
heai Irom me again. 



No. CXXXVl 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 6tU December, 1792. 
I shall he in Ayrshire, I think next week ; and, if at 
kll possible, ! shall certainly, my mnch-esleemed friend, 
have the pleasure of visiting at Diinlop House. 

Alas, Madam ! how se.dom do we meet in Ma world 
that We have reason to congratulate ourselves on ac- 
cessions of happiness ! I have liol passed half the or 
.diiiaryterm of an nlil man's Mfe, and yet I scarcely 
Jeok over the obituary of a newspaper, that I ilo no'i 
•ee some names that I have known and other ac- 

?iKiinli>nces little thought to meet with there so soon. 
;very oilier insiance of the mortality of our kind makes 
us cast an anxions look in ihe dreadful abiss of uiicer- 
tK''m/,aiKl shiidilei with iippiehension for our own 
Niihi hut oi how diffrieiil an importance aiv the lives 



of different individuals f Nay. of what Importance W 
one period of the same life more than another.'' A few 
years ago, I could have laui down in the dust, "care- 
less of the voice of the moiniiig;'" and now not a lew, 
and these most helpless individuals, would, on losing 
me an. I mv exertions, lose Iniih their "staff and 
shield." By the way, these helpless ones have lately 

got an addition, Mrs. B having givc.i me a fine 

girl since I wrote yon. There is a charming passage 
in Thoiriaon's Edioard and Eleanoia — 

" The vallianli/i At/Tise//, what can he suffer ? 

Or what need he regard his single woes .'" &e. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall give 
you another from the same piece, peculiarly, alas I 
too peculiarly apposite, iny dear Mailam, lo your 
preaent frame of miud ; 

" Who 80 unworthy but may proudly deck hiin 
With his fair-weather virtue, thatexulis' 
Glad o'er the summer main .'' the tempest comes, 
The rough wimls rage aloud ; when from the helm 
'J'his virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting — Heavens ! if pi ivilcgedfrom trial. 
How cheap a thing were virtue !" 

1 do not remember lo have heard you mention 
Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite quotations, 
and store them in my mind as ready armour, offensive 
or defensive, ami I the .-struggle ol this lurhuient ex- 
istence. Oi these is one, a very favourite one, from his 
AJred : 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 

And olhces of hie ; lo life itself, 

Willi all Its Vain a. id ti aiisient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these lo you former- 
ly, as indeed when 1 write from the heart, I am apt lo 
heguilvy of such i epeliilons. The compass of the heart, 
in the musical style ol expression, is much iiiurebouiid- 
ed than that of the imagination ; so the notes of the 
former are exireiuely apt tu i un into one anoiher ; but 
in return lor the panciiy of its compass, its lew notes 
are much mure sweet. I must still give you another 
qnotaiion, whicli I iim almosL sure I liave given you 
bclore, bill I cannot resist the temptation. The subject 
IS religion — speaking Jl lis importance tu lliaMKind, 
the author Bays, 

" ' Tis this, my friend, that streaks our mo'iiing 

bright, 
'Tis thin I hat gilds the horror of our night, 
When wealth forsakes us, and when fi lends are few ; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 
'Tie this that wards the hliw, or stills the smart, 
Disarms atfliclioii, or repels his dart ; 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I see yoti are in for a double postage, sol shall e'en 
scribble out t'other "heet. We, in this country here, 
have many alarms of the reforming, or rather the re- 
publican spirit, of yonr part of the kingdom. Indeed, 
we are a good deal in commoiion ourselves. Kor me, 
I am apt icemai, you know : a very l.ninhle one in- 
deed, neaveii ki^ows, but still s.) much so as to gag me. 
VVlial my private sentiments are, yuu will find out 
without au mierpreler. 



I have taken up the subject in another view, and the 
oilier day, fora pretty Actre:.9e8's heiiehl night, I wiote 
an Address, whnli I will give ou the other page, called 
The /tight J of Woman.' 

I shall have the honourof receiving your Ci iticistM ia 
persuu at Duuljp. 

• See Poems, p. 89. ' 



I 



LETTERS. 



1)5 



No. CXXXVII. 

TO MISS B"*", or YORK. 

•2\st March, 1792. 
MADAM, 

Among many things for which I envy ihose liale, 
.on? Mved olil I'eriows belore the floml, is tliia in iiarti 
ciiiar, liial when Ihev met with any boily alter ;heir 
own heart, Itiey liad a. clunniin^ long ijrospect of many, 
many haijpy meetings willi ihem in alter life. 

Now, in this chort, stormy, winter day of our fleet 
ins; existei.ce when you, now and then, in the Chan- 
ter of .Accidents, meet an individMal whose acquaint- 
ance is a real acunisition, where all the probaijihties 
airaiiist you, ll;at yon shall never meet willi that vahi- 
eil character more. On the other hand, brief as this 
miserable beiiia is, it io none of the least of the miser- 
ies belonging to il, that if there is any miscreant whom 
yon hale, or creature whom you despise, the ill run of 
the chances shall be so against you, that in the over- 
takings, turnings, and justlings of life, pop, at some 
Unlucky corner eternally comes the wretch upon yon, 
■ nd will not allow your imagination or contempt a 
mimtnl'g repose. As I am a sturdy believer in tlie 
powe'-s of darkness, I lake these to be the doings ol 
that old author of mischief, the devil. It is well known 
that he has some kind of short-hand way of taking 
down our thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is 
perlectlv ac'|uainted with mv seuliuieius respecting 

ikiiss B^ ; how much I ad'.nired her abilities, and 

rained her worth, and how very inrlunate 1 thought 
mvselfiri her acquaintance. For ibis last reason, my 
dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of the vei^" 
great pleasure of meeting with you again. 

Miss H tells me that she is sending a packet to 

you, and 1 beg leave to send ycni tlie enclosed sonnet, 
though, to tell you the real truth, the sonnet is a mere 
p'-etence, that 1 may have the opportunity of declaring 
■with how much lespecilul esteem 1 have the honour to 
be. &c. 



curse him with a keener relish than any man livinc 
for the pleasures that lucre can purchase : lastly, fill 
up the measure of his woes by bestowing on liiin a 

muse lu-stuus lo couNlerbaiitiice iliis cataiugue of evils. 



he coun.^els of wisdom a 
solving Ihem in diltcullii 
Handing them with infa 



bev 



,1 but 
hinrv 



must own that all our happiness on eaith is n 

lirospect of (laradisical bliss is but the glitter ol a 
iiorihern sun rising over a frozen region, compared 
iviihiiie many pleasures, the nainelesa raptures thai 
We owe to the lovely (iueen ol the heart of Man ! 



No. CXXXIX. 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESa. 



December, 1793. 



No. CXXXVIII. 



TO MISS C'"-. 

August, 1793. 
MaUAM. 

Some rather unlooked-for arcidents have prevented 
my doing myself the honour of a second visit to Arbeig- 
laiid, Ks'l was so hospitably invited, and so positive- 
ly meant to have done. However, I still hope lo 
have that pleasure before the busy months of liarvest 
begin. 

1 enclose you two of my late pieces, as some kind of 
reiurii for the pleasure I have received in perusing a 
certain MSS. volume of poems in the possession of 
Captain Riddel. To repay one with an old so ,g, is a 
proverb, whose force, you. Madam, I know, will not 
allow. What is said of illustrious descent is. 1 believe 
equally true of a talent for poel'-y, none ever despised 
who had pretensions to it. The fates and characters 
.of the rhyming trib<; often employ my thoughts when I 
am disposed to be melancholy. There is not among 
all the mariyrologieslhatever were penned, so rueful a 
narrative as the lives of the poels. In the compara- 
tive view ol wretches, the criterion is not what they are 
doomed to sillier, but how they are formed to bear. — 



SIR, 

It is said that we take the greatest liberties with our 
greatest friends, and I pay invsell' a very high compli- 
ment in the mailne'- in which 1 am going lo apply the 
remark. 1 have owed you money longer than ever I 
owed to any man. Here is Ker's account, and here 
are sixguineas ; and now. I flou't owe a shilling lo 
man — or woman either. But for ihese damned duty, 
dog's-eared little jiages,' I had iloue inystlf the honour 
to have waited on you long ago. Indepeiulent of the 
obligations your hospitality has laid me under ; the 
consciousness of your superiority in the rank o*" man 
and geiitlemdn, of itself was fully as much as 1 coiilii ev- 
er make head against ; but to owe you money too, was 
more than 1 could face. 

1 think 1 once mentioned something of a collection of 
Scots songs 1 have some years been making : I send 
I you a perusal of what 1 have got logeiher. I couM not 
conveniently spare them abovelive or six days, and fiva 
or six glances of them will probably more than sntfice 
you. A very few of them are my own. When you are 
tired of them, please leave ihein with Mr. Clint, of the 
King's .Arms. There is not another copy of ihe Cillec- 
lion in the world ; and 1 should be sorry that any iinlor- 
luiiale negligence should deprive me of what has cusl 
me a good deal of pains. 



No. CXL. 



Take a being of our kii 



give 



him a slronger 



tion and a more delicate sensibilily, which between 
them will ever engender a more ungovernahle set of 
passions than are the usual lot of man : implant in 
him an irresistible im|)ulse of some idle vagary, such as 
arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing 
the grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song, 
watching the frisks of the little minnows in the sunny 
pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies— in 
■tiort, send him adrift after some pursuit which shall 
•teraaSly loislead him from the paths of lucre, and yrt 



TO MRS. R*""', 

Who was to bespeak a Pity one evening at the Dum- 
fries Theatre.' 

1 am thinking to send my Address to some periodical 
puhlication, but il has not got your sanction, so pi'ay 
look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of yon, my dear 
Madam, to give us, The Wondur, a Woman keeps a 
Secret .' to wiiich please add, The Spoilt Child — you 
will highly oblige me by so doing. 

Ah! what an enviable creature you are I There 
now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day, you are going 
to a parly of choice spirits-- 

" To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form, 
Those rapid pictures, that assembled train 

•Scottish Bank Note*; 



116 



LETTERS. 



Offleet Ideas, neTerJoIn'd before, 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise j 
Or folly-painting humour., grave hinnself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-ahaking every iierre." 

But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, do al 
■o rememher to weep with them that wtep, and pity 
your melancholy friend. 



No. CXLI. 

To a lyviy, in favour of a Player^ t Benefit. 

MADAM, 

yon were so very good as to promise me to honour 
my Iriend with your presence ou his benefit night. 
That night is fixed for rrid.iy first ! the play a must 
Interestina one ! Th-i Wny lo keep him. I have the 
pleasure lo know Mr. G. well, liis merit as an aotor 
la generally acknowledged. He has aenius and worth 
which would do honour to palronaHe ; he is a poor an.1 
modest man : cliiirns which from their very sile ce 
have the more fortitile power on the generous heart. 
Alss,forpiiy ! that from the ind'ilence of those who 
have the good thinas of litis life in ilieir ei(t. too oOen 
tloes braxeii frontrd imporluiiitv snHlch that hoon, the 
rightful due of retiring, liumhie want ! Of all the 
qualities we assign to the author and director of Na- 
ture, hy far the most enviable is — lo be able " lo wipe 
axay all tears from all eyes." O what iudignificaut. 
■ordid wretches are they, however ch.mce may have 
loaded Ibpm wiih wealth, who go tn their graves, lo 
their magnificent nmusoleums, with hardly the con- 
sciousness of having matle one poor honest heart hap- 
py ! 

But 1 crave your pardon, Madam, I came to beg, 
mot lo preach. 



No. CXLII. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 
TO MR. . 



1794. 
I am extremely obliged to yon for your kind mention 
of my interests, in a letter which Mr. S'" showed 
nie. At present, my situation in life must be in a great 
measure stationary, at least for two or three years. 
The statement is this — lam on the supervisors' list ; 
and as we cotne on there hy precedency, in two or 
three years I shall be at the head of that list, and be 
aK-poiiiteil of co«rse— then, a Friend might be of ser- 
vice to me in getting me into a place of the kingdom 
■which I would like. A supervisor's income varies 
from about a hundred ami .weniy to two hundred a- 
year ; but the business is an incessant drudgery, and 
would be nearly a complete bar Im every species of lit- 
erary pursuit. The moment I am appointed sujier- 
visor in the common routn.e, I may be noniinateil on 
the Collector's list ; and this i« always a busiuesa pure- 
ly of political patronage. A collectorship varies much 
from better than two hundred a-year to near a thou- 
sand. They also come forward by precedency on the 
list, and have, besides a handsome income, a lite of 
complete leisure. A life of liierurv leisure, wiih a de- 
cent competence, is the surnnilmf my wishes. It would 
be the prudish aflectaiinn of silly pride in me, to say 
that I rlo not need, or would not be indebted to n po- 
litical friend ; al the same time. Sir, I by no means lay 
my affairs before you thus, to hook my dependent situ- 
ation on your benevolence. If. in my progrfss in 
iife, an optning should occur where the good offices of 
a gentleman of your public character aiid political 
eonstquenct might bring me forward, I will pelitiun 
your goodness wiih the same frankness and siureri'.y 
U I now do myself the honour to gubscriU; ni.;v»eif, &c. 



No. CXLIII. 

TO MRS. R 

DEAR MADAM. 

I meant to have called on you yesternight ; but as i 
edged up to your box door, the fust object which greet 
ed my view was (uje of those lousier coated puf.. 
pies sitting like auoi her dragon, su a rding ihe i esperiun 
fruit. Un the cindiliuns' and capitulaliuns yo.i to 
obligingly ofier. I shall cei lainly make my weather 
beaten rusiic phiz a part of your box-furnitpre ou 
Tuesday, when we may arrange the bui>iiie>» of Iha 
visit. 



Among the profusion of idle compliments, which 
insidious crali, or unmeaning folly, incessantly oft'er 
to your shrine— a shrii.f", how far exalted above such 
ndororatio^i— permit me, were it hut lor rarity's sake, 
to pay you the honest tribute of a warm heart and an in- 
dependent niiivd ; and lo assure you that I am, ihou 
most amiable and most accomplished of thy »ex, 
with the moat respectful esteem, and fetvent regard, 
thine, &.C. 



No. CXLIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

1 will wait on you my ever-valued friend, bu» <vhe'h» 
e> in the morning I am not sure. Sunday closes a pe* 
riod of our cursed revenue business, and may probably 
keep nie employed wiih my pen until noon. Fine em- 
ployment for a poet's pen ! There is a species of tha 
human genius that 1 call the einhorse ciasn : what 
enviable dogs they are! Round, and round, and round 
they go — .Muudeil's ox, that drives his cotton-mill, i« 
their exact prototype— v.ithont an idea or wish be- 
yond their circle ; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and 
contented ; while here I sit, aliogelher Novemberish, 

a d me/ange of frellulness and ineluncholy ; not 

enongnofthe one to rouse me lo passion, nor of tha 
other to repose me in turpor ; my soul Hoiinciiig and 
.luttering round her leuemeiit, like a wild finch can »ht 
amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust in J a 
gage. Well, I am pevsuailed that it was of me the 
Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — " And be- 
hold on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, il shall 
not prosptr!" If my resciiiment Is awakened, il il 
sure to be where it dare not squeak ; and if — 



Pray that wisdom and bliM be more frequent visitort 



No. CXLV. 

TO THE SAME. 

I have this moment got the suug from S'**, and 

I am sorry tn see lliat'he has spnili it a good deal. 

II shall be a lesson to me huw I lend him any thing 
again. 

T have sent you Werti^. truly happy lo ha»e any, the 
smallest opportunity of obliging you. 

'Tis true. Madam. I saw yon once since I whs a 

VV ; and ihai once froze the very life-blood of my 

heart. Your reception of me was such, that « wre'ch 
meeting the eye of his judge, about to pronounce tha 
sentence of death on him. could only have envied my 
feelings and siiunticn. But I hale tiie theme, and n«« 
er more shall wnie or speak unit. 



LETTERS. 



117 



One thine 1 shall prou'lly ""T. '*iat ' ^an pay Mrs. 
— a higl-er iriOiile of eiiteein, and apiji-eciate lier 
amiable -.vortli more truly, lliaii any man whom 1 have 
•eeii aijproach her. 



No. CXLST. 



TO THE SAME. 

I have often told you, my dear friend, that you had 
ft 8|Ace of ca|jrice in yunr coiniiosilion, and yon have as 
olti:n disavowed it: even, perliaps, while your oiiinioiis 
Were, at the moment, inefragubly proving it. Could 
a'ly J ti;ig- estrange nie from a friend sncli as you ? — 
No ! To-morrow i ihall have the honour of waiting on 
jrou. 

Farewell thou first of friends, and most accomplish- 
ed of women : even with all thy Utile caprices. 



No. CXLVII. 

to the same. 
Madam, 

1 return your common-place hook; I have perused it 
with much pleasure, and "would have continueil my cii 
licisins ; Ijut as it seems the critic has lurftiied your 
Ciieem, Ins strictures must lose their value. 

If it is true that " offences come only from the 
heart," before you I am guiltless. To admire, esteem, 
and pri''.e you, as the most acouinjjlisheil of women, and 
tilt tiisl of Iriends— II these are crimes, 1 am the most 
dtienUmg thing alive. 

hi a face where I used to meet the kind complacency 
of ineiidly conridence.nou) to find cold neglect and con- 
tfemptuons scorn — is a wrench that my heart can ill 
bt.nr. It is, however, some kind of iniseratile g')od 
luck, that while d haut-e i-b-is rigmir may depress an 
Unorteiidiiig wretch loihe groinid, it has a tendency to 
rouse a stubborn S'Jinetliingin Ids bosOm. winch, ihungli 
It cannot heai the woinuls of hie soul, IS at least au opi- 
ate to biur their poignancy. 

With the profoundesl respect for your abilities ; the 
most sincere esteem and ardent regard tor your genile 
heart and amialile manneis ; and the most fervent wish 
and prayer lor your welfare, peace, and bliss, i have 
tlie honour (u be, Madam, your must devoted, humble 
aervuul. 



No. CXLVIII. 

TO JOHN SYME, ESa. 

Vou know that, among other high dignities, you have 
the honour to be my supreme court of critical judica- 
ture, from which there is no appeal, i enclose you a 
song which I composed since I saw you, and I am going 
10 giveyou the hislory of it. Do you know , that among 
much that I admire in the characters and manners of 
those great lulks whom I have now ihe honour lo call 
my acquciiniances.tli 



ill Mr 



l)s. 

.lewo.ll; 



ble attiich- 
u ever, my 



dear 
Oivu 
fonu 
posii 



'L-r uf all good things Ihaii AIi-. O. A line 

lormed too, much beyond the usual run of yooiig fel- 
lows ol his rank and loriune : anil lo all this, such a 
woman ! — but ol her I shall say nothing at all, in des- 
pair o saying any lliingadequate. In my song, I have 
eiide.ivoured to do justice to what would be his feel- 
ings, oil seeing, iu the scene I hare drawn, the habita- 



tion of his Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with mf 
performance, I in my first lervonr, thought of sendiiis 

it to Mrs. O ; but on second thoughts, perhap* 

what I offer as the honest incense of geiinine respect, 
might, fioinihe well known character of poverty and 
poetry, be construed into some mudificalion or olhtrof 
that servility which my soul abhors.* 



No. CXLIX. 



TO MISS 

MADAM, 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity could 
have made me trouble you with this letter. Kxcept my 
ardent and just esteem for your sense, taste, and worth, 
eveiy senlimenl arising in your breast, as I put pen to 
paper lo you, is painful. The scenes I have passed 
with the friend of my soul and his amiable coiineX' 
ions ! the wrench at my heart to think that he is gone, 
for ever gone from me, never more to meet in the wan- 
derings of a weary world ! and the ciitling refiection of 
all that I had most unloiluiialely, though most unde- 
serveilly, lost tiie confidence of tiial soul of worth, ere 
it took its fiight ! 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary an- 
guish.— i lowever, you also may be oB'ended with some 
!OT/mi..d improprieiies of mine ; seiisihiliiy you know ( 
jiossess, and sincerity none will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been raised 
against me, is not the bosiness of this letter. Indeed 
il IS a waifare I know not how to wage. The powert 
of positive vice I can in some degree calculate, and 
against direct malevolence i can be on my guard ; 
but who can estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, 
or ward off the unthinking mischief of precipitat* 
folly .•> 

1 have a favour to request of you, Madam ; and of 
your sister Mrs. — , through your means. You know 
thai, at ihe wish ol UiV lale friend, I made a collecuou 
of all my trifles in verse which I had ever wrilten. 
There are niiiny ot thtm local, some of them puerile 
and all ol them, unfit for the public eye. As I have 
Some lillle fame at stake, a fame that I trust may live 
when the hale of those " who walch for my halting," 
and the contumelious sneer of ihose whom accnlcnt 
has mude my superiors, will, with themselves, begone 
lo the regions of oblivion ; I am uneasy now lor tlie 

lale of ihose manuscripts. W ill Mrs. have the 

goodness to desiioy them, or return them to me .'' A» 
a plelge of friendship they were bestowed ; and that 
circumstance indeed was all iheir merit. Most un- 
happily lor me, that merit they no longer pi'sstss ; 

and I 'hope ihat Mrs. 's goodness, which i well 

know, and ever will revere, will not rcliise this lavour 
to a man whom she once held iu some degree of es;i- 
mation. 

With the sincerest esteem, I hare the honour lo b«, 
Madam, &c. 



No. CL. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

■25th Fehi art/. 1794 
Canst thoii minister to a mind diseaseil .'' Canst 
thou speak (;Bare and rest ;o a soul tossed o;i a sea .>■ 
trout. les, vvilli..ut one fneodlv slar to soide her com ee, 
and dreading ihal the iif xt surge may uverwiieim litr > 
Cacst thou give to a frame, liembhugly alive as ihe 



* The song enclosed was that, given in Poems, paga 
112, beginning, 

0,uat ye loha'a in von tovmJ 



118 



LETTERS. 



lOrtures of titspense, the •lability and hardihood of 
tlie rock tliHt iiravcs tiie blusi .'' If iliou caiisi not do 
tlie leasi .li these, wliy woiil.lst thoa disturb me in my 
with tliy inquiries alter me? 



For these two months, I have not been able to lift a 
pen. My constiLuii jn and Irvine were ab origi/ie, 
bl.isled Willi a deep incurable lainl of byiiochondri i, 
■ wliicb |joisi)ms iny existence. Of lule, a iinmlier of do- 
mesiic vexiuioiis, and siune pecuniary share in the rn 
in uf (liese ■ • ■ • • (lines ; losses whlcli, lliongli ti'i- 
fling, were yet wluit 1 could ill bear, have so irritated 
me, that my feelings at limes could oidy be envied by a 
reprobate spirit lisi-iniiig to the sentence thai dooms 
it to petuitioii. 

Are yon deep in the language of consolation ? T have 
exhausted in retiectioii every topic ofcomlort. A/ie irt 
a( <.«.« would have been charmed wiili my sentiments 
and leasoniiii^s , but as to myself, 1 was like Judas Is- 
cari.jt preaching the Gospel : he might melt and niouhl 
the heai'is of those arouud him, but his own kept its 
naiive incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, 
aiiiitl liie wreck of misfortniie and misery. 'I'he one 
is composed of the ditlerenl mxlilicaiions'of n certain 
n liile, stubborn something in man, known by the names 
31 courage, foriitude, m.iguanimity. 'Viieol/i::r is made 
up of those feelings and sentiments, which, however 
the sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast disfigure 
them, are yet, I am cmivinced, original and component 

iMits of tile human soul : those senses of Ik", mind, if 
ii>ay be allowed the expression, which connect iis 
with, and link us to, those awful obscure realities — an 
all powerful, and equally beueliceiit God ; and a world 
to lome, beyond death and the grave. 'I'he first gives 
.the nerve of Combat, while a\,ray of hope beams on the 
field : — the last pours the balm of comfort into the 
wounds which time can never cure, 

I tlo not remember, my dea- C-nningham, that you 
mild ! ever talked on the £.::ijoct of religion at all. I 
know some who laugh at it, an the trick of the crafty 
<£'<?, to lead the niidisceriiiiii; mrvry ; or at most as an 
Uncertain oiiscurity, which mankind can never know 
Buy thing of, and with which they are fools if they give 
li.emselvcs much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a 
man tor his irreligion any more than I would for his 
want ol a musical ear. 1 would regret that he was 
•iiot out from wliat, in me and to others, were such 
•nperlaiive sources of enjoyment. It is in llrs point of 
new. and for this reason, that I will ileeply imL,..c the 
mind of every child of mine with religion, 'if my son 
shuiild happen lo he a man of feelins, sentiment, and 
t.iste, I shall thus add largely t» his enjoyments. Let 
mt rt.iiier myself that this sweet little fellow, wh-i is 
)ini now running about my desk, will be a man of a 
melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an imasrination, 
delighted with the p.iinter, and rapt with the poei. 
Let me fijure him wamlenns out in a sweet evenins, 
to inhale the hilmy gales, and enjoy the growing Inxu- 
ri.ince of the spring ! himself the while in the bloooiing 
youth of life. He looks abroad on, all nature, and 
through nature up to nature's God. His soul, by swifi 
d-.'li!£luing degrees, is rapt above this anblunary sphere. 
Until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the 
g'orious enthusiasm of 'I'humson, 

" These as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are hot the varied God. — The roiling year 
Is fuii of tiiee." 

And so on in all the spirit and ardour of thai charm- 
ing hyi:.:i. 

These are no ideal pleasures ; they are real delights : 
bnd ! ask what of the delights among the sons of men 
»re superior, not to say equal, to them.-' And they 
have this pretiousi, vast addition, that conscious virtue 
•lair.ps ihein lor her own ; and lays hold on them to 
bring herself into the presence of a witnessing, judg- 
ing, and ipproviug Gotl, 



No. CLI. 

TO MRS. R**". 

Supposes Jtimself to be writing from the Dead M t\M 

Lioin^. 
MaDaM, 

I dare say this is the first epistle yon ever recived 
from this nether wjrld. I write you iVom the resiuna 
of riell.ainid the liprrors of the damned. The time 
and manner ol my leaving your earth I do not exactly 
know, as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of 
intoxication, contracted at your too hospitable man' 
sioii ; but, on my arrival here, 1 was fairly tried and 
sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this in 
feriial confine for the space of ninety nine years, elev- 
en months, and twenty-nine days, and all on account 
of the impropriety of my conduct yesternisjlit under 
your root. Here am I, laid on a bed, of pitiless furze, 
with my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever- 
piercing thorn ; while an inlernal tormentor, wrinkled, 
and old, and croel, his name I think is Recolleclion, 
with a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest t.5 ap- 
proach me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, 
Madam, if I conl.l in any measure be reinstated in the 
good opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last 
night so much injured, I think it would be an allevia- 
tion to my torments. For this reason I trouble y')U 
with this letter. To the men of the company I will 
make no'apology. Your hnsban 1, who insisted on my 
drinking more than I chose, has no right to blame me ; 
and the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. 
But to you. Madam, 1 have much lo apoUigize. Voui 
good opinion I valued as one of the greatest acquisi- 
tions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to 
forfeit it. There was a Miss I , too, a woman -iX . 

fine ^eiise, gentle and unassuming manners — do make, 

•in my part, a miserable d d wretch's best apology 

to her. A Mrs. G , a charming woman, did me 

the honour to he prejudiced in my favour :— this makes 
me hope.that 1 have not outraged her beyond all for- 
giveness. To all the other ladies please present my 
hnmhiest contrition for my Conduct, and my petiiioii 
for their gracious pardon. (J, all ye jiowers of decen- 
cy and decorum I whisper to them, that my errors, 
though great, were involuntary — that an intoxicated 
man is the vilest of Deasts ; that it was not my nature 
to be brutal to any one ; that to he rude to a woman, 
when in my senses, wasjimpossible with me--but-- 



Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell hounds that 
ever dog my steps and bay at my heeU, spare met 
spare me ! 

Forgive the ofiTences. and pity the perdition of, 
Mailaci, 

Your humble <lavc. 



No. CLII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

5th Deegmber, 1783. 
MY DEAR FRIEND, 

As 1 am in a complete Decemherish humour, gloomy, 
sullen, siujiid. as even the deity of Dnlness herself 
conid wish, 1 shall not drawd ovit a htavy letter with ft 
number of heavier apologies for my late silence. Only 
one I shall mention, because I know yon will sympa- 
thize in it: these four months., a sweet little girl, my 
youngest child, has been so ill, that every day, a weeit 
or less, threatened to lerininale her existence. 'I'liere 
had much need be many pleasures ai.nexed lo the state* 
uf husband and father, for God knows, they have many 
peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, 
sleepless hours, these ties frequently give ine. I see ft 
tram of helpless little folks ; me and my exertions all 
their slay ; and ou what a briliU thread duo liieiifc at 



.ETTERS. 



Ilf 



men nmng' If I urn nipt off at the comtnand iif Fate, 
e«reo in all the vigiiurul manliooii us I am — anch thiiigs 
happen every day — gniciDiis Gixl ! wliai would become 
of my little Hock ! 'Tis htre Ihat I envy your people of 
fortune'. A lather on his (leatli-be(l,'tiil(iiij» an ever- 
lastina leave uf his children, has indeecf wo enough ; 
but the man of competent loimne leaves his sons anil 
daii^hieis independency and friends ; while I— lint 
1 shall ruu (lisiracled if 1 think any longer on the sub- 
lect! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I ih&Using 
WUh the old Scots ballad — 



" O that I had ne'er been married 
I wcnld never had nae care : 

Nov.' I've gotten wife and bairns, 
They cry crowdie ! evermair. 

Crowdie ! ance I crowdie twice ; 

Crowdie ' ihree limes in a day : 
An ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ye'li crowdie a' my meal away.' 



December 2itk. 
We hare had a brilliant theatre here this sea.=nn ; 
only, as all other business has. it experiences a slasna- 
tion of trade frcm ihe e|piilemical complaint of Ihe 
eomitry, irnnt of rash. I mention onr theatre mere 
ly to log in an occasional Address which ' wrote for 
the htnefit night ofoneof the actresses, and which is ae 
follows :* 

SS/'i, Christmas Morning, 
This mv moch-loved friend is a morning of wishes ; 
Rccept mine — so heaven hear me as they are sincere ! 
tlial blessings may attend yonr steps, and nfflirtion 
know yon not! in the charming words of my favonrite 
anthor. The M :nof Feelhic:, " May the Great Spirit 
bear np the weight of thy gray hairs, and blunt the ar- 
row that brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of anthora, how do vo" like Cow- 
per? Is not the T si a glorions fioem ? The veli- 
pion of the Tsk. hating a few scraps of Calvinistic di- 
vinity, is the religion ofGnd -ind Nature the reliirio;i that 
exalts, that ennobles man. Were not von losend eiit; vour 
Z lucn, in return for mine .•> Tell me now you like my 
•narks and notes through the hook. 1 would not give a 
farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot it 
with my criticisms. 

1 have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, nil my 
If Iters. I mean those which I first sketched in a rough 
draught, and afterwards wrote out fair. On looking 
over some old musty papers, which, from time to time, 
1 had parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth 
preserving, and which yet at the same time I did not 
care to destroy; 1 discovered many of these rude 
sketches, and have written them out, in a hound MSS, 
for my friend's library. As I wrote always to yon the 
rhapsody of the moment, I cannot find a single scroll to 
yon, except one, about the commencement of our ac- 
ouaintance. If there were any possible conveyance, I 
would send you a perusal of my book. 



No. CLIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN I-ONDON. 

Dumfries, 'iath December, 1795. 
I havf! been prodigiously disappointed in this London 
Jo'iroeyof yonrs. In the first place, when your last to 
me reached Dumfries, 1 was in the country, and did 

* Tb* Address is g;ive« io p. 15^ cff the Poem*. i 



not return until loo late lo answer yout letter , in the 
next place, i thought you would ci'iiainly lake lh:» 
route ; anil now I know not 'vluil is hecome ol yon aj 
all. God grant llial it may liiul yju and vuurs in pro* 
pering healili and goi.d spiriu I Do Jet me hear lioin 
you the soonest posiible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend Captain Mil- 
ler, I shall every leisure hour, lake up the p( II, and 
gossip away whatever comes tirsl, prose or poesy, ser- 
mon or Song. In this last article I navf abandoiied of 
late. I have often meniioned to you a superb publica- 
tion of Scottish soiiis which is making its appeaianc^ 
ill j'onr great melrepolis, and where 1 have the honour 
lo preside over the Scottish verse as no Itss a person- 
age than i eter I indar does over the English. I wrote 
the following for a favourite air. See the Song enti- 
tled, Lord Gregory, Poems, p. 86, 

December 29^^. 
Since T began this letter, T have been appointed lo 
aet ill the cajiacity of supervisor here : and I assure 
yun, what Willi t.lie load of business, aiirl what with 
that business being new to me, 1 could scaiccly luive 
coininaniled ten minnies to have spoken lo you, had 
yon been ill town, much less to have written you an 
epistle. This appointment is only temporal y, and 
during the illiitss of the preseni incuinbenl; but I 
look forward to an early period when 1 shall he ap- 
pointed in full form ; a coiisiimmalinn devoutly to 
be wished ! My political sina seem lo be forgiven'n.e. 



This is the seaEon (New-year's day is now rny date) 
of wishing ; and mine are most fervently otl'ered up for 
you I May life lo you be a positive blessing while it 
lasts for your own sake ; and that it may yet be great- 
ly prolonged, is my wish for my own sake, and i'orlhe 
sake of the rest of your friends! What a transient 
business is life ! Very la'ely I was a boy ; but t'other 
day 1 was a young man ; and I already begin to leei 
the rigid fibre anil siifi'eninj joints of old age coming 
last o'er my frame. With all my follies of youili, ani, 
I tear, a few vices of manhooi', siill I congialnlaie my- 
self on having had, in early days, religion sirongly im- 
pressed on my mind. 1 have nolhi;igto say to any one , 
as lo which sect he belongs lo, or what creed he be- 
lieves ; bill I look on ihe man, who is firmly persuaded 
of infinite Wisdom and Goodness superintending and 
directing every circumstance thai can happen in his 
lot — 1 feiiciiaie such a man as having a solid loniid»- 
tion for his mental enjoyment; a firm prop and sure 
stay in the hour of ditlicully, ironb;', and disiress ; 
and a never falling anchor of hope, when he looks be- 
yond the grave. 

January \2th. 
You will have seen our worthy and ingenious friend 
the Doctor, long ere this. 1 hope he is well, and beg 
to be remembered to him. 1 have just been reading 
over again, I dare say for the hundred and fiftitih lime, 
his View of Society and Manners ; and still I read it 
with delight. Iiis humour is perfecti originai— it is 
neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, 
nor of any body but Dr. Moore. By the by, yon have 
deprived me of Zel.co ; remember that, when yon are 
disposed to rake up the sins of my neglect from among 
the ashes of my laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty cumpliment, by quoting 
in his last publication.* 



No. CLIV. 

TO MRS. R-'**. 

^th January, ITOB. 
1 cannot express my gratitude to you for al.owiit 
me a longer perusal of Anachareis. Jn faa 1 iie«# 

• Edward. 



120 



LETTERS. 



iTitfi with a K»oir that bewitched me so much ; and I, ai 
a menihei- of the hhrary, tniiet w:irmly feel the obhga 
turn von nave laid us under. Indeed lu me, the obliga- 
tion is sir.jiijiei- than to any other indivich.al ot otir so- 
ciety ; as A mcharsis id au indispensable desideratum 
to a Sun of llie iVliises. 

The heakli yon wished me in your morning's card, 
is I iliink, flown from me for ever. I have not beei 
able lo leave my beil to day till abonl an hour ago. — 
These wickeilly tndncky adveriisemeiils I lent (1 die 
wruii:;) lo a fiieiid, and 1 am ill able to gj in quest 
of him 

The Mfses have not quite forsaken me. The fol- 
lowing detached stanzas I intend to interweave in 
some disastrous tale of a shepherd. 



No. CLV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

31 si January, 1796. 
These many months you have been two packets in 
my deLl— what sin of isnorance I have committed 
8;;aiii&t so '^.liililv valued a friend I am utterly at a loss 
to a;uess. Alas ! Madam ! ill can I afford, at this 
lime, to he deprived of any ofthe.-imall remnant of my 
pleasure*. I have lately drunk deep iif the cup of at- 
fiiction. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter 
and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so 
rapidly, as lo put it out of my power lo pay the last du- 
ties '.o her. I had scarcely begun to recover from that 
•hock, when I became myself the victim of a most se- 
»ere rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful ; 
Until, after many weeks of a pick lied, it seems to 
have turned u|i life, and i am beginning to crawl across 
Riy room, and once indeed ha .e been before my own 
floor in the street. ^ 

When pleasure faBcin'.tes the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies fje visual ray, 
Religion hails the (* ear, the untried night, 

Aud shuts, tor r /er shuts, life's doubtful day I 



No. CLVI. 

TO MRS. R-«*' 
Who had desired him to go to the Birth-Day Assem- 
bly on that day to shota his loyalty, 

MhJune,^13Q. 
am ill eiich miserable health as lo be utterly inca- 
pable of showing my loyalty in any way. Racked as I 
am tt'iih rheumatisms, I meet every face with a sreet- 
ins, like that of Balak to Halaam— " Come, curse me 
Jacob ; and come, dely me Israel I" So say I — come, 
cuiae me that east wind: and come, defy me the 
north ! Would you have me in such circumstances, 
copy yiu out a love song ? 



mtjre? For ihes* eight or ten months I hare becfi 
ailing, sometimes hedlast, ^nd Bouieiimes not ; but 
these last three months, I have been tortured with .id 
excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me tc 
nearly the last stage. You actually would not know 
me if you saw me. i'ale, emaciated, and so feeble ai 
occasionally to need help from my chair! my spirits 
fled! fled! — bull can no more on the subject — only 
the medical folks tell me that my last and only chance 
is bathiuir, and country qunrters, and riding. — The 
deuce of the matter is this ; when an exci.seman is off 
duty, his salary is reduced to 35/. instead of 50/,— 
What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain my- 
self, and keep a horse in country quarters— with a wife 
and five children at home, on 'SS/..-" I mention tliis, 
because I had intended to beg your utmost interest, 
ami that of all the friends you can muster, to move 
our Commissioners of Excise to grant me the lull sala- 
ry — 1 dare say you know them all personally. II they 
do not grant it me, I must lay my account with an exit 
truly enpoete, if I die not of disease, 1 must perish 
with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other my 
memory does mu serve nie with, and I have no copy 
here ; but I shall be at home soon, when I will send ;t 
to you. A-propon lo heme at home, Mrs. Burns 
tiirrateus in a week or two to add one more lo my pa- 
ternal charge, which, if of the right gender, I iiilenti 
shall be introduced to the world by the ieg|)ectahle de- 
signation o( Alexander Cunnir.sham Bums. My Insl 
J-inies Glencairn, so you can have no objection to 
the company of nobility. Farewell ! 



No. CLVIIT. 

TO MRS. BURNS. 

Brow, TTiursday. 
MY DEAR F.ST LOVE, 

1 delayed writing until I could tell you what effect 
would be iujuB- 



I mav, perhaps, see vou on Saturdav, but T will not 
ke at the ball. Why should I ! " Man delights not 
me, nor woman either .•"■' Can you supply me with 
the song. Let us all be unh-nppy together — do if you 
can, aud oblige le pauvre miserable. 

R. B. 



No. CLVII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
B^ovj, S^eabathins Quarters, Ttk July, 1796. 
MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM, 

I recfcived yours here this moment, and am indeed 
highly flattered with the apijrobation of the literary 
circle you mention ; a literary circle inferior to mme 
in the two kiiifdom'". Alas! my friend, I fear the 
Toics of the bard wdl loon be heard among you no I 



sea-bathing was likely to piodii 
tice to deny that it ha? eased my pains, and 
has strenatheoed me ; but my appetite is still extreme, 
ly bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and 
milk are the only thing I can taste. I am very happy 
to hear, by Miss Jes.s l.ewars, that you are all wcli. 
My very best and kindest compliments to her, and to 
all the chiMren. I will see you on Sunday. Your af- 
fectionate husband. R. ti. 



No. CLIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



Brow, UthJuJy, 1796, 
MADAM, 

I have written you .lo often without receiving any 
answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for 
the circumstances in which I am. An illness which 
has long hung about me, in all probability will speedily 
send me beyond that bour-e whence no triv,ller re- 
turn.'. Your friendship, with which tor many years' 
you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. 
Your conversation, and especially your corres|icnd- 
ence, were at once highly eii^r'aining and instruc- 
tive. With what pleasine did I use to break up the 
seal! The reuiembri-.nce yet adds one pulse more to 
my poor palpitating heart. Farewell!!!' R. B. 

* The above is supposed to be the last production of 
Robert Born*, who died on the 21st of the month. i:ine 
daVB afierwards. lie ha. I, however, the pleasure of 
ri-.'eiving a satisfactory exjilanation of bis friend's ei- 
lence, and an assurance of the coiilinuance of her 
f. lei'ijfiliip to his widow and children; an assurance 
that has b.-en f.m|,ly fi.irilhri. 

It is probable ihat the are.Tter part of her letters to 
him were tiestroved by our H..rd about the ii Tie that 
this last was written. He did not foresee that his own 
letters to her were 'o appear in print, nor conceive th» 
flisappointment that will be frit, that a lew otihis e»- 
cellent lady's have not served lo enrich aud adorn tlM 
colleclicu. K. 



CORRESPONDENCE 



WITH 



MR. GBORaS THOMSON. 



PREFACE. 



THK remaining part cf this Volume, consists pnn- 
sipally of the Correspoudeuce between AJr. Bums 
aad Mr. 'I'humson, oii the subject o!' the beautiful 
Work projected and executed by the laiter, the na- 
ture of which is explained in the first number of tne 
following eeries.* 'the undertaking of Mr. i hornson, 
is one iu which the Public may be congratulated in 
various points of viev/ : not merely as having collected 
the finest of the Scottish songs and airs of past times, 
but as liaving given occasion to a number of original 
songs of our bard, which equal or surpass ihe former 
efforLs of the pastoral muses of Scotland, and which, 
if we mistake not, may be safely compared with the 
lyric poetry of any age or country. I lie letters of 
Mr. Burns to Mr. Thomson include the songs he pre- 
sented to him, some of which appear in different 
stages of their progress ; and these letters will be found 
to exhibit occasionally his notions of song-writing, and 
his opinions on various subjects of taste and criticism. 
These opinions, it will be observed, were called forth 
by the observations of his correspondent, Mr. 'f hom- 
eun ; and without the letters of this gentleman, those 
of Liurns would have often been unintelligible, tie has 
tl erefore yielded to the earnest request of the Trus- 
tees of the family of the poet, to suffer them to appear 
in their natural order ; and, independently of the 
illustration they give to the letters of our iJard, it is 
not to oe doubted that their intrinsic merit will ensure 
them a reception from the public, far beyond what 
Mr. Thomson's modesty would permit him to suppose. 
'J'he whole of this correspondence was arranged for 
the press by Mr. Thomson, and has been printed with 
Utile addition or variation. 

To avoid increasing t.ie bulk of the work unneces- 
sarily, we have in general referred the reader for the 
Song to the page in the Poems where it occurs ; and 
have given the verses entire, only when they differ iu 
•oaie respects from the adopted set. 

* This work is entitled. " A Select Collection of 
original Scottish Airs for the Voice: to which are 
ad'Jed introductory and Concluding Symphonies and 
Atcompaniments for the 1 iano Forte and Violin by 
t-'le> K, .tud KozeUich : with select and characteristic 
Versca, uy the must admired Scottish i'ocM, &c." 



No. 1. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, September, ITSS. 
SIR. 

For some years past, I have, with a friend or two, 
employed many leisure hours in selecting and collatlii| 
the most favourite of our national melodies for publj 
catioil. We have engaged lleyel, the most agreeaU 
composer living, to put accompanimciitb to these, ao 
also 10 compose an instrumental prelude and coiiclu 
sion to each air, the better to fit them for concerts 
both pubUc and private. To render this work per 
feet we are desirous to have the poetry improved 
wherever it seems unworthy of the music, and that I 
is so in many instances, is allowed by every one cou 
versant with our musical collections. The editors o 
these seem in general to have depended on the music 
proving an excuse for the verses : and hence, sums 
charming melodies are united to mere nonsense uud 
doggerel, while others are accommodauu with rhymes 
so loose and indelicate, as cannot be sung in decent 
company. To remove this reproach would be an easy 
task to the author of The Co'ier^s Satuniaii ytielu ; 
and, for the honour of Caledonia, I would fain hope 
he may be induced to take up the jien. U so, we 
shall be enabled to present the public with a col- 
lection infinitely more interesfing than any that has 
yet appeared, and acceptable to all persons of taste, 
whether they wish for correct melodies, delicate ac- 
companiments, or characteristic verses. — v\ e wiB 
esteem your poetical assistance a particular favour, 
besides paying any reasonable price you shall please 
to demand for it. Profit is quite a secondary consi- 
deration with us, and we are resolved to spare neither 
pains nor expense on the publication. Tell me frank- 
ly, then, whether you will devote your leisure to 
writing twenty or twenty-five songs, suited to the par- 
ticular melodies which I am prepared to send yoii. 
A few songs, exceptionable only in some of their verses, 
1 will likewise submit to your consideiation : leaving 
it to you, either to mend these, or to make new sung* 
in their stead. It is superfluous to assure you that S 
have no intention to displace any af the steriiug old 



122 



LETTER 



eouga : ihoseonly v ill be removed, which appear quite 

sil /, or aos.j'luieiy iudeceiil. t.\eii iliese shall ail be 
ixarniiied by Ajr.' ij irns. and if lie is i>f opiniun that 
uny ol ilieni are cles>;rviiig ol the music, in such cases 

110 divorce shall take place. 

Relying on tlie letter acfo (lOa ly'.ng this, to be for- 
given tor the liberty i have u.Ksii i-i addressing you, 1 
am. with great esteem, Sir, yo ir most obedient hum- 
ble servant, 

G. THOMSON. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Dumfriea, ISth September, 1792. 
SIR, 

I have just this moment got your letter. As the 
request you make; nie will positively add to my enjoy- 
ments in comi,lying with it, I shall enter into your 
undertaking with all the small portion of abilities 1 
have, strained to their utmost exertion by the impulse 
of enthusiasm. Only don't liuriy me: " Ueil tak the 
hindmost," is by no means the cri de guei/e of my 
muse. Will you. as 1 am inferior to none of you in 
enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and music of 
old Caledonia, and, since you request it, have cheer- 
fully promised my mite of assistance — will you let me 
have a list of your airs, with the ftrst hue of the 
printed verses you intend for them, that I may have 
an oppoi-tunity of suggesting any alteration that may 
occur to I'lie. Vou know 'tis in the way of my trade 
still leaving yoa, gentlemen, the undoubted right of 
put^lishers, to approve or reject, at your pleasure, for 
your own publication. A/jrupos! if you are for 
EuAish verses, there is, on my part, an end of the 
matter. Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or 
the pathos of the song, 1 can only hope to please my- 
self in being allowed at least a sprinkling of our native 
tongue. Knglish verses, particularly the works of 
!<col8meu, that have merit, are certainly very eligi- 
ble. Tweeiiside — All, the poor skeplierd's Tnouinn.1 
fae — Ak, Chloris could I now bu' sit, &c. you cannot 
Hieiid ; but such insipid stuff as, T.j Fanny fair could 
I imparl, &c. usually set to The Mill Mill O. is a dis 
grace to the collection in which it has already appear- 
ed, and would doubly disgrace a collection that will 
have the very superior merit of yours. Uut more of 
this in the farther prosecution of the business, if I am 
called on fur my strictures and amendments — I say, 
\meiKlmeiils : for 1 will not alter except where 1 my- 
self at least think that I mend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my songs 
either above or below price : for they shall absolutely 
be the one or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with 
which I embark in your undertaking, to talk of money, 
wages, fee, hire, &c. would be downright proscituliim 
vj S'lid ! A proof of each of the songs that I compose 
or amend. I shall receive as a favour, lu the rustic 
phrase of the season, " Uude speed the wark I" 
1 a.ni. Sir, your very humble servant, 

R. BURNS. 

P. S. T have some particular reasons for wishing 
ID? interfereuce to be kauwu as little as possible. 



No 111. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS, 

Edinburgh, Idlh October, 1792. 
DEAR SIR, 

I received, with much satisfaction, ycur pleasant 
•lid ohlioii,s> letter, and 1 return my warmest acknow- 
(eUj-irieiiis for the eiuhusiasm with which you have en- 
tered hito our 'luder'.akiiig. We buvt now uo doubt 



of being able to p induce a collection highly deaerrlng 
of public attention in all respects. 

I agree with you in thinking En^liak verses tnaC 
have merit, very eligible, whereve"- new verses are 
necessary ; because tlie i-nglish becomes every year 
more and more the languaige i^f >cotluiid . but if you 
mean that no English vei 5is. e.xcepi tlmse by .^cotlisii 
authors, ought to be a Imi ied, i am half iiicliueil to 
difl'er from you. I should consider it uii|)aidoiial)le 'o 
sacrifice one good song in the .■jconish dialect, to niahe 
room for English verses, but if we can select a lew 
excellent ones suited to the unprovided or ill-provided 
airs, would it not be the very bigoliy of li'erary pa. 
Iriolism to reject such, merely because the authoia 
were born south of tho 'I'weed? Our sweet air. jVyy 
Nanuii O, which in the collections is joined to the 
poorest stuff that -Allan Kanisay ever wiote, begin- 
ning, IV/ale nutite for i-leiuu.K , a.cit ilien- .ualJi, an- 
swers so finely to Dr. I ercy's beautiful song, U, .Na/iiy 
wdt lliou so wi.li me. tliat one would think he wrote it 
on purpose for the air. Howevei , it ii i it at all our 
wish to confine you to English verse* : yi> i shall freely 
be allowe.l a sjiriMkling of your native tongue, as yuu 
elegaiiiiy express it ; and moreover, we will patiently 
wait your own lime. One thing only 1 beg which is, 
that however gay and sportive the muse may be, sue 
may always be decent. Let her not write \» hat beau- 
ty would blush to speak, nor wound that charming 
delicacy which forms the most precious dowry of our 
daughters. I do not conceive the sung to be the must 
proper vehicle for witty and brilliant conceits, sim- 
plicity, 1 believe should be its prominent feature . out, 
in some of our songs, the writers have conl'ounded 
simplicity with coarseness and vulgarity , although 
between the one and the other, as ^r. L.eaitie well 
observes, there is as great a difference as between a 
plain suit of clothes and a bundle of rags, 'l he hu- 
morous ballad, or pathetic complaint, is best suited to 
our artless melodies . and more interesting, indeed, ia 
all songs, than the most pointed wit, dazzling descrip- 
tions, and flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, 1 send ynu eleven of 
the songs, for which it la my wish to substitute other* 
of your writing, l shall soon iian,'>iiiil liie rest, and, 
at the same time, a prospectus ot the whole collection : 
and you may believe we will receive any hints that 
you are so kind as to give for impruvmg the work, 
with the greatest pleasure and thanKiulness. 

1 remain, dear bir, &c. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
MY DE.iR SIR, 

Let me tell you, that you are too fastidious in your 
ideas of songs and ballads. I own that your criticisms 
are just; the songs you specify in your list have 'Ul, 
bi Olid, the faults you remark in them ; but who shall 
mend the matter ? Who shall rise up a:iJ say — Go to, 
1 will make a better? For instance, on reading over 
the Lea-rig, I immediately set about trying my hane 
on it, and, after all, 1 could make nothing more ol it 
than the following, which Heaven knows is po'H* 
enough : 

When o'er the hill the eastern star. 

Tells bughtin time is near my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field. 

Return sae dowf and weary O : 
Down by the burn, where scented birki* 

Wi' dew hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on th.e l.-i .-ig. 

My ain kind dearie U. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie i). 
If thro' that glen I gaed to thet. 

My ain kind dearie 0, 

* For " scented birks " in some copies, " UrkM 
Lads." £. 



l^h.T'l\LRS. 



123 



Ahhr>' the night were ne'er sae wild,* 
-Anil I were iie er sae wearie U, 

I'd meet ihee on llie lua-dg, 
My aid kind dearie 0. 
Vour observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy's 
fuilad to tlie air Nannie O, is just. It is besides, p'er- 
i'ups the most beautiful ballad la the English language, 
but lit me remark to you, that, in the sentiment and 
•tylc of our ,-icottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, 
a soinelhing that one may call the Doric style and dia- 
lect L.;' vocal music, to which a dash of our native 
tongue and manners is particularly, nay peculiarly 
apposite, t or this reason, and, upon my honour, for 
li.is reason alone, I am of opinion (but. as i told you 
belore, my opniion is yours, freely yours, to approve, 
or reject as you please; that my ballad of Nannie O, 
might perhaps, do for one set of verses to the tune. 
Now don't let it enter into your head, that you are 
under any necessity of taking my verses. 1 have long 
ago made up my mind as to my own reputation in the 
business of authorship ; and have nothing to De pleased 
or offended at, in your adoption or rejection of my 
verses, i hough you should reject one half of what 1 
give you, I shall be pleased with your adopting the 
other half, and shall coutiime to serve you with the 
■ame assiduity, 

in the printed copy of my Nannie O, the name of 
the river is horridly prosaic. 1 will alter it, 

" liehind yon hills where Lugar flows." 

Gifvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of 
tlie stanza best, but Lugar is the most agreeable modu- 
lation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more remarks on 
this business but 1 have just now an opportunity o ' 
Conveying you this scrawl, free of postage, an exjjense 
that it IS ill able to pay : so, with my best compliments 
lu honest Lilian, Good be wi' ye, &c. 

Friday nigkl. 



Saturday morning. 
As I find I have still an hour to spare this morning 
bsfore my conveyance goes away, 1 will give you Nan- 
nti: U, at length. See r'oenui y. 61. 

■i'our remarks on Ewe-bugkts, Marion, are just: 
■till it has obtained a place among our more classical 
bcotlish bongs and what with many beauties in its 
Composition, and more prejudices in its favour, you 
wilJ not hud it easy lo supplant it.. 

ju my early years, when 1 was thuiking of going to 
the West .ndies. 1 touk the following farewell of a 
dear girl. It is quite trilling, and has nothing of the 
merits of Ji^ii-c-b.,^,!..^ , but it will till up this page, 
\ ou must'know, that all my earlier love-songs were 

* In the copy transmitted to Mr Thomson, instead 
of wild, was inserted uet. But in one of the maiiu- 
icripts, probably written afterwards, wet was changed 
into wild ; evidently a great improvement. The lovers 
might meet on the lea-rig, " although the night were 
ne'er so wild," that is, although the summer wind 
blew, the eky lowered, and the thunder murmured ; 
Buch circumstances might render their meeting still 
more interesting. But if the night were actually wet, 
why should they meet on the lea-rig ? On a wet night 
the imagination cannot contemplate their situation 
there with any complacency. — TibuUus. and, after him. 
Hammond, has conceived a happier situation for lov- 
ers on a wet night. Irnbably t!urns had in his mind 
the. verse of an old Scottish Song, in which uii£ and 
weary are naturally enough conjoined. 

" When my ploughman comes hame at ev'a 

He « often wet and weary ; 
C.a.t\. off the Wet, put on the dry, 

^.nJ gas lo bed niy deary." 



the breathings of ardent fission : and though It riiight 
have been easy in after-times to have given them a 
l)olish, yet that polish, to ine, whose they were, unci 
who perhaps alone cared foriiiem. would have -.efaced 
the legend of my heart, which was so faithf. Ily ln< 
scribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as 
they say of wines, their race. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore .' 

See Foems, p. 84 . 

Galla yVater, and Auld Rob Mirris, I think, will 
most probably be the next subject of my musings. 
However, even on my verses, speak out your criticiainj 
with equal frankness. My wish is not to stand aloof, 
the uncomplying bigot of opmintrete, but cordially to 
join issue with you in the furtherance of the work. 



No. V. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November 8th, 1792. 
If yo'j mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs in your 
collection shall be poetry of the first merit, I am afraid 
you will find more difficiilty in the undertaking than 
your are aware of. There is a peculiar rhvthmua in 
many of our airs, and a necessity of adapting sylla- 
bles- to the emphasis, or what i would call the feature 
mies of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him 
under almopt insuperable difficulties. For .nstance, 
in the air. My wij,.'^ a wani.m wee l/iini, if a few 
lines smooth and pretty can be adapted to it. it is all 
you can expect. '1 he following were made extempore 
to it. and though, on further study, I might give you 
something more profound, yet it might not suit the 
light-horse gallop of the air so well as this random 
clink. 

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing. 

See t'oema, p. 54. 

I have just been looking over the Collier's bonnie 
Dnc'i er ; and if the following rhapsody, which I com- 
posed the other day, on a charming yrshire girl, 
Miss , as she passed through this place to Eng- 
land, will suit your taste better than the Collier Lag- 
sie, fall on and welcome. 

saw ye bonnie Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the border? 

See Poems, p, 84. 

I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic 
airs until more leisure, as they will take, and deserve,, 
a greater effort. However, they are all put into your 
hands, as clay into the hands of the potter, to make 
one vessel to honour and another to dishonour. Fare 
well, &c. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Inclosing the Song on Highland Mary 
See foeme, p. bo. 

Uth Novemher, 1792. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

1 agree with you that the song, JCa'.herine Ogie. i» 
very poor stuff', and unworthy, altogether unwurthy, 
beautiful an air. i tried lo mend it, bui tli.i 
awkard sound \j!fte recurring so often in the iliyine 
spoils every attempt at introducing sentiincnt into the 



IM 



LETTERS. 



i>ioce. Tlie foregoing song pleases myseif; I think it is 
in mv hapijiest nianuer , you will see at first glance 
lliat it suits tlie air. The subject of the song is one of 
the most interesting passages of my youthful days ; 
and I own that 1 should be much flattered to see the 
veises set to an air, which would ensure celebrity, 
i^erhaps. after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my 
heart, that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits 
of the composition. 

1 have partly taken your idea of Auld Rob Morris. 
I have adopted the two first verses, and am going on 
with the song ou a new plan, which promises pretty 
well. I take up one or another, just as the bee of the 
moment buzzes in ray bonnet-lug; and do you, sans 
ceiernunie, make what use you choose of the produc- 
tions. Adieu ! &c. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, November, 1792. 
DEAR SIR, 

I was just going to write to you that on meeting 
with your Nannie 1 had fallen violently in love with 
her. I thank you, therefore, for sending the charming 
rustic to me, in the dress you wish her to appear be- 
fore the public. She dSes you great credit, and will 
aooti be admitted into the best company. 

I regret that your song for the Lea-riz, is so short ; 
the air is easy, soon sung, and very pleasing ; so that, 
if tlie singer stops at the eud of two stanzas, it is a 
pleasure lost ere it is well possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and manners 
is doubtless peculiarly congenial and appropriate to 
our melodies, yet I shall be able to present a consider- 
able number of the very KloXvers of tnghsh Song, well 
adajited to those melodies, which in Kngland at least 
will lie the means of recommending them to still 
gititler attention than they have procured there, hut 
yuu will observe, my plan is, that every air shall, in 
the lirst place, have verses wholly by fecotkish poets: 
and that tliose of English writers shall follow as addi- 
tiunal songs, for the choice of the singer. 

What you say of the Ewe-buelns is just ; I admire 
it and never meant to supplant it. .-ill I requested 
was thai you would try your hand on some of the in- 
ferior stanzas, which are apparently no j)an of the 
original song : but this 1 do not urge, because the song 
is of sufficient length though those inferior stanzas be 
omitted, as tiiey will be by the singer of taste. Vou 
must not Ihhik I expect all the songs to he of superla- 
tive merit . tnat were an uiu-easunable expectation. 
1 am sensible that no poet can sit down doggedly to 
pe.i verses, and succeed well at all times. 

I am highly pleased with your humourous and 
amorous rhapsody on lionme Leclie ; it is a thousand 
times better than the (Joihei's Lassie. '• The deil lie 
could na scaith ihee," &c. is an eccentric and happy 
thought, bo you not think, however, that the names 
of such old heroes as Alexander, sound rallier queer, 
unless in pompous or mere burlesque verse .' Instead of 
the line "' ^nd never made another." i would humbly 
suggest, " .ind ne'er made sic anither " and i would 
fain have you substitute some otlier line for ' Ueturn 
to Caledonia," in the last verse, because 1 think this 
alteration of the orthography, and of the sound of 
(uledonia, disfigures the word, and renders it Uudi 
braatic. 



Of the other song, My wife's a winsome wee thing, 
] think the first eight lines very good, but I do not 
adnnre the other eight, because four of them are a 
bare repetition of the first verse. J have been trying 
to spin a stanza, but could make nothing better than 
the following : do you mend it. or, as \ orick did with 
the love-letter, whip it up in your own way. 

O leeze me on my wee thing ; 
My bonnie blythsome wee thing; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
I'll think ni" lot divme. 



Tho' warld's care we share o't, 
And may see rneickle mair o't ; 
Wi' her I'll uUthely bear it, 
And ne'er a word lepine. 

You perceive my dear Sir, 1 avail myself o the 
liberty which you condescend to allow me, ly speaking 
freely what I think. Lie assured it is not my disposi- 
tion to pick out the faults ol any poem or picture I 
see: my first and chief object is to discover and be 
dehghted with the beauties of the piece. f I set down 
to examine critically, and at leisure, what perhaps 
you have written in haste, I may happen to observe 
careless hnes, the repcrusal of which might lead you 
to improve them. The wren will often see what ha» 
been overlooked by the eigle. 1 remain yours faith- 
fully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary are just 
come to hand : they breathe the genuine spirit of 
poetry, and, like the music, will last for ever, tiuch 
verses united to such an air, with the delicate harmo- 
ny of I'leyel superadded, might form a treat worthy 
of being presented to Apollo himself. 1 have heard 
the sad story of your Mary: ou always seem iu- 
spired when you write of her. 



No. Via. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Dumfries, Vst December, 1792. 
Your alterations of my Nannie O are perfectly 
right. So are those of My wife's a wanton wee lUtnz. 
Vour alteration of the second stanza is a positive im- 
provement. Now, my dear Sir, with the freedom 
which characterizes our correspondence, I must not, 
cannot, alter Bunme Leslie. \ ou are right, the word, 
•• .Alexander" makes the line a little uncouth, but I 
think the thought is pretty. Of .Alexander, beyond all 
other heroes, it may be said in the sublime language of 
bicripture, that '' he went forth conquering and to 
conquer." 

" For Nature made her what she is, 
And never made auithe"-." (Such a person as she i».) 

This is in my opinion more poetical than " Ne'er 
made sic anither." However, i: is immaterial ; make 
it either way.' ■' Caledonia," I agree with you, it 
not so good a word as could be wished, though it is 
sanctioned in three or four instances by Allan Itam- 
say : but 1 cannot help it. In short, that species of 
is the most difficult Ihatl have ever tried. 



The Lea-rig is as follows. (Here the poet gives the 
two Jirst stanzas, as before, p. Vi ,v>ith the. following 
in adduvm.) 

The hunter lo'esthe morning sun, 

']'o rouse the mountain deer, my Jo: 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along tlie burn to steer, my jo : 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray. 

It makes my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind deary, O. 



I am interrupted. 



Youri, &C. 



No. IX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON. 

Inclosing Auld Robin Morris, and Duncan Gray.— 
See Poems, p. 85. 

4j/i December, 1792. 
The foregoing {Auld Rob Moms and Duncan 
Gray,) I submit, my dear Sir, to your better Judgmeut. 

* Mr. Thorapiou has decided oo Nt'er made tie 
anither. E 



i 



LETTERS. 



123 



Acquit tbeiii, oi condemn them as seemeth good in your 
•tKbl. jjuucau uray is ihul kuiil ut' lighl-hoi'se gal 
lb-> of au air, whirli precluiiea seulimeul. The iudic- 
rout 1* il« ruliug feature. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 

With Po!>rtith Cauld and Galla Water. 

See Poems, p. 86, 

January, 1793. 
Many returns of the season to you, my dear Sir.-- 
h!>w cimies on your publication? will these two fore- 
gr'iag be of any service to you ? I should like to know 
what songs you print to each tune besides '-he verses to 
wliicii it is set. In short. ! would wish to give you my 
opinion on all the poetry you publish. You know it is 
my trade, and a man in the way of his trade, may sug- 
gest usefi.l hints, that escape men of much superior 
parts and endowments in i. ther things. 

If you meet with my dear and much valued C. greet 
him in my name, with the compliments of the season. 
Yours, &c. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR, BURNS. 

Edinbursfk, January 20, 1793, 
Tou make me happy, my dear Sir. and thousands 
will be happy to see the charming songs you have sent 
me. Many merry returns of the season to you, and 
may you long continue, among the sons and daughters 
of Caledonia, to delight them and to honour yourself. 

The four last songs with which you favoured me, viz. 
Aiild Rob Morris, Duncan Gray, Galla Wa.'er, and 
Cauld Kail, are admirable. Duncan is indeed a lad 
of grace, and his humour will endear him to every 
body. 

The distracted lover in Auld, Rob, and the happy 
Shepherdess in Galla Water, exhibit an excellent con- 
trast : they speak from genuine feeling, and powerfully 
touch the heart. 

The number of songs which I had originally in view 
wasninited ; but I now resolve to include every Scotch 
air and song worth singing, leaving none behind but 
mere gleanings, to which the publishers of omnezaihe- 
rum are welcome. I would rather be the editor of a 
collection from which nothing could be taken away, 
than of one to which nothing could be added. We in- 
tend presenting the subscribers with two beautiful 
■troke engravings ; the one characteristic of the plain- 
tive, and the other of the lively songs : and J have Dr. 
Beattie's promise of an essay upon the subject of our 
national music, if his health will permit him to write it. 
As a number of our songs have doubtless been called 
forth by particular events, or by the charms of peerless 
damsels, there must be many curious anecdotes rela- 
ting to them; 

The late Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, I believe 
knew more of this than any body, for he joined to the 
pursuits of an antiquary a taste for poetry, besides be- 
ing a man of 'he world, and possessing an enthusiasm 
for music beyond most of his contemporaries. He was 
quite pleased with this plan of mine, for I may say it 
has been solely managed by me. and we had several 
long conversations about it when it was in embryo, if 
I could simply mention the name of the heroine of each 
gong, and the incident which occasioned the verses, it 
would be gratifying. Pray, will you send me any in- 
formation of this sort, as well with regard to your own 
■ougs, as the old ones 7 



To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or pastoral 
kind, will be joined the dtlicate accuinpaninieiiis, ice, 
of i leyel. 'I'o tliose of the !;omio and luuiioijns class, 
I think accompaniments scarcely necessary Mliev ars 
chiefly fitted lur the conviviality of ihe festive board, 
and a tuneful voice, with a proper fleliveiy of the 
words, renders them perfect. Nevertheless, lu these 1 
propose adding bass accoiiipanimeiils, because lliea 
they are fitteu either for singing, or for instrumental 
performance, when there happens to be no singer. 1 
mean to employ our right trusty friend Air. Clarke, 
to sM the bass to these, which he assures me lie will 
do con anore, and with much greater aitcnlioii tiiaii he 
ever bestowed on any thing of tlie kind. Uut for this 
last class of airs I will not attempt to find more than 
one set of verses. 

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has started 1 
know not how many difficulties, about writing for the 
airs 1 sent to him, because of the peculiarity of tlieir 
measure, and the trammels they impose on his flying 
1 egasus. J subjoin for your perusal the only one 1 
have yet got from him, being fur the tine air " L.ord 
oregory." 1 he facots verses printed with that air, are 
taken from the middle of an old ballad, called I'ne L,ii.ss 
uj jLiotv't/oyfin, which 1 do not admire. 1 have set down 
the air therefore as a creditor of yours, ivlaiiy of tlia 
Jacobite songs are replete with wit and humour, might 
not the best of these be included in our volume of coiuie 
songs 1 



POSTSCRIPT. 

FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE- 

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to give me 
perusal of your songs. Highland Mary is moat en- 
chantingly pathetic, and Duncan Gray possesses native 
genuine humour; " spak o' lowpin o'er a linn," in a 
hue of itself that should make you immortal. I some- 
times hear of you from our mutual friend C. who is a 
most excellent fellow, and possesses, above all men I 
know, the charm of a most obliging disposition. Vou 
kindly promised me, about a year ago, a collection of 
your unpublished productions, religious and amorous : 
1 know from experience how irksome it is to copy. 1 f 
you will get any trusty person in D Jmfries to write 
them over fair, I will give teter Hill whatever money ' 
he asks for his trouble, and 1 certainly siiall not betray 
your confidence. I am your hearty admirer, 

ANDHEVV EKSKINE. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

iSth January, 1793. 
I approve greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans ; Dr. 
Beattie's essay will of itself be a treasure. On my 
part, I mean to draw up an appendix to the Doctor's 
essay, containnig my stock of anecdotes, &c. of our 
Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I 
have by me, taken down in the course of my acquaint- 
ance with him from his own mouth. I am such an en- 
thusiast, that, in the course of my several peregrina- 
tions through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the 
individual spot from which every song took its rise ; 
Loc/iaber. and the Braes of Ballenden, excepted. So 
far as the locality, either from the title of the air, or 
the tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I have 
paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every 
Scots muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable 
collection of Jacobite songs : but would it give no of 
fence? In the mean time, do not you think that some 
of them, particularly Tke S no's Tad to Grorjie. as 
lir, with other wo. us, might be well worth a place 
in your uoUek.lion of lively songs ? 

If it were possibln to procure nongS of miv^t, it would 
be proper to have one set of Scot^ •'Jisis.-o every air 
and that the set of words to wbic - .(49 uote^ ought to 



1-26 



LETTERS. 



be Bet. There is a naivete, a pastoral simplicity in a 
•light intermixture of Scols wortls and phraseology, 
%vhii.h is more in unison (at least to my laste, and I 
will add trf every genuine Caledonian laste) with the 
simple I iithos, or rustic siirighl.iiiess of our native mu- 
Bic, than any JJugUsh verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to 
your work. His Gregory is beautiful. I have tried to 
give you a set of stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, 
•which are at your service. Not that I intend to enter 
the lists with Peter; that would be presumptioain- 
deed. My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, 
has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it,* 

My most respectful compliments to the honourable 
gentleman who favoured me with a postscript in your 
last. He shall hear from me and receive his MSS. 
soou. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

20th. March, 1793. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

The song prefixed is one of my Juvenile works.t I 
leave it in your hands. 1 do not think it very remarka- 
ble, either for its merits or deinenis. It is impossible 
(at least I feel it so in my aiiuted powers; to be always 
original, entertaining and winy. 

What is become of the list, &c. of your songs ? I 
shall be out of all temper with you by and by. I have 
always looked upon myself as the pnnce of indolent 
coj-respondents, and valued myself accordingly ; and I 
will not, cannot bear rivalship from you, nor any body 
else. 



No. XIV. 

MR* BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

yVith the first copy of Wandering Willie. 
See Poems, p. 87. 

March, 1793. 
I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine whe- 
ther the above, or the old Thro' the long Muir, be the 
best. 

" For Burns'i words, see Poems, p. 86. The song 
of Dr. Walcott, on the same subjeci, is as follows : 

Ah ! ope. Lord Gregory, thy door 1 
A midniglil wanderer sigiis : 
■ Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar, 
And lightnings cleave the skies, 

Wbo comes with wo at this drear night— 

A pilgrim of the gloom 7 
If she whose love did once delight, 

My cot shall y=eld her room. 

Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn, 

That once was prized by thee ; 
Think of the ring by yonder burn 

'I'hou gav'sl to love and me. 

But thould'st thou not poor Marian know, 

I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms that round me blow, 

Far kinder than thy heart. 

It is butdoing justice to Dr. Walcott to mention, that 
his song Is the original. Mr Burns saw it, liked it, and 
Immediately wrote the other on the same subject, 
ytiiih is derived from an old Scottish ballad of uncer- 
tain origin. £. 

t Alary Mohson. Poems, p. 66. 



No. XV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. TnOMSCN 

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH I 

With Alterations. 

Oh ! open the door, some pity show, 
Oh 1 open the door to me, Oh 1* 

See Poems, J 87. 

I do not know whether this song be eally mended 
• 

No. XVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

JESSIE. 

Time—'' Bonnie Dundee." 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr ; 

See Poems, p. 87. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 2rf April, 1793. 
I will not recognize the title you give yourself, " the 
prince oi ind lU-n' corre8|)ondent8 ." but if the adjec- 
tive were taken away, I think the title would then fit 
yuu exactly. It gives me pleasure to find you can fur- 
nish anecdotes with respect to most of the songs ; these 
will he a literary curiosity. 

I now send you my list of the songs which I believe 
will be lound nearly complete. 1 have put down the 
first lines of all the English sougs which I propose giv- 
ing in addition to the .Scotch veises. If any others oc- 
cur to you, betler adapted to the character of the airs, 
pruy mention them, when you favour me with your 
strictures upon every thing else relating to the work. 

1 leyel has lately sent me a number of the songs, with 
his symphonies and accompaniments added to them, 
i wish you were here, that i might serve up some of 
them to you with your own verses, by way of dessert 
after dinner. There is so much deligblful fancy in th« 
symphonies, and such a delicate simplicity in the ac- 
companiments — they are indeed beyond all praise. 

1 am very much pleased with the several last pro- 
ductions of your muse : your Lord Gregory, in my es- 
timation, is mere interesting than I'etcr's, beautiful as 
his isi \ our Here aioa H iUic must undergo some 
alterations to suit the air. Mr. Erskine and' I have 
been conning it over ; he will suggest what is necessary 
to make them a filmatch.f 

* This second line was originally, 
If love it may na be, O .' 

\ See the altered copy ot Wandering Willie, p. 83 of 
the Poems. Several of the alterations seem to be of 
little importance in themselves, and were adopted, it 
may be presumed, for the sake of suiting the words 
better to the music. The Homeric epithet for the sea, 
dark-heaving, suggested by .Mr. Erskine, is in itself 
more beautiful, as well perhaps as more sublime, than 
wild roaring, which he has retained ; but as it is only 
applicable to a placid slate of the sea. or at most to tht 
swell left on its surface after the storm is over, it gives 
a picture of that element not so well adajjled to the 
ideas of eternal sepaiaiion, whirh the fair mourner tt 



LETTERS. 



127 



The gentleman 1 have rier.tioned, whose fine taste 
you are no stranger to, is so wtll pleasetl both with the 
DiuBical ami poetical part of our worlc. that he has 
»<iluuteered his assisluiice, and has ah-eady written 
four scngs for it, wliich, by his own desire, i seud lor 
your peru«ai. 



No. xvm. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST WAS 
BLAWN. 

Air—" The Mi'J Mill O." 

When wild war's deadiy blast was blawn, 
And gentle peace leturniug, 

See Poems, p. 87. 

MEG O' THE MILL. 

Air — " bonnie lass will you lie in a barrack." 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' keu ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 

See Poems, p. 88. 



No. XIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

7(71 ApriL 1793. 
Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You 
ciMiiiot imagine how much this business of composing 
for your publication has added n my enjoyments. 
What with my early attachment to hallwds your 
books, &c. ballad-makin? is now as completely my 
hobby-horse as ever fortification was uncle Toby's so 
I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my 
race (God grant that I may take thp, risht side of the 
wininng post !) and then cheerfully looking back on the 
honest folks with whom I have oeen happy, I shall sae 
or sing. '' fr'ae merry as we a' liae been I" and raising 
my last looks to the whole human i ace, the last words 
of the voice cf CoiZrt* shall be, '■ Good night and joy 
De wi' you a' !" So much for my past words : now 
for a few present remarks, as they have occurred at 
random on looking over your list. 

The first lines of The Inst time I came o'er the moor, 
and several other lines in it, are beautiful ; hut in my 
opinion— pardon me revered shade of Kamsay! the 
song is unworthy of iMe divine air. 1 shall try to 
make or meml. F^n ever. Fortune, will thou jrrnve, is 
a charming song! but //Oo-an burn and Lo^nn braes, 
are sweetly susceptible of rural imagery : I'll try that 
likewise, and if 1 succeed, the other song may class 
among the English ones. I lememher the two last 
lines of a verse, in some of the old songs of Logan 
Water (for 1 know a good many diflfereat ones) which 
1 think pretty. 

" Now my dear lad maun lace his faes, 
Fai-, far frae me and Logan braes." 

Eitpposed to imprecate. Fro.-n the original song of 
Hers awa Willie, burns has borrowed nothing but the 
uecond line and part of the first. 'I he superior excel- 
lence of tJiis beautiful poem, will, it is hoped, justify 
the different editions of it whi.;h we have given. E. 

* Burns here calls himself the Voice of Coila in imi- 
tation of Os«ian, who denomhiates himself the Voice 
of Cona. Sae meny as we a' kae been; and Good 
flight and joy be wi' you a', are the names o' twr 
Scottish tunes 



My Patie j» o lover fay. Is unequal. " Ilia mind ia 
never muddy," is a muddy expression indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, •• 
And syne my cockernony." — 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your 
book. My song, Wi^s of Barley, to the 'same tune, 
does not altogether please me : but if f can mend it, 
and thrash a few loose sentiments out of it, I will 
siiDmit it to your consideration. T!ie Lass n' Pa'if's 
Mil is one of Ramsay's best songs; but there is one 
loose sentiment in it, which my much valued fri<;iid 
Mr. Krskine will take into his critical considera- 
tion. — In tjir J. Sinclair's Statistical volumes, are two 
claims, one, I think, from .xberdeensliire. and the 
other from A yrshire. for the honour of this song. H lie 
following anecdote, which I had from the present >ir 
William L'umiingham, of Robeitland who had it of 
the late .Tohn Larl of Loudon, I can, on such authuri 
ties, believe 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon-ca^tle with 
the then Karl father to Earl .!ohn ; and one forenoon, 
riding or walking out together, his Lordship and 
Allan passed a sweet romantic spot on Irvine water, 
still called '' 1 atie's Mill," where a bonnie lass vaa 
"tedding hay. bare headed on the green." My Lord 
observed to ' llan, that it would be a fine theme for a 
song. Hamsay took the hint, and lingering behind, 
he composed the first sketch of it, which he produced 
atdhiner. 

One day I heard Mary say, is a fine song ; but for 
consistency's sake alter the name '' .Adonis." Where 
there ever sitch banns published, as a purpose of mar- 
riage between Alonis and Mary .' I agree with you 
that my song. There's nouzht bw care on every haiii , 
is much superior to hooTlith cauld. The original 
song, '/7i? Mill A. ill O. though excellent, is, on account 
of delicacy, inadmissable ; still I like the title, and 
think a .Scottish song would suit the notes best ; and 
let your chosen song, which is very pretty, follow, as 
an i-nglish set. T lie Banks of ?/ie iJee, is, you know, 
literally Lan^olee, to siow time. The, song is well 
eno\igh, btit has some false imagery in it; for in 
stance, 

" And sweetly the nightingale sang from the tree." 

In the firsL place, the' nightingale sings in a low 
bush, but never from a tree ; and in the second place, 
there never was a nightingale seen, or heard, on tha 
banks of the Lee or on the banks of any other river 
in Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always com- 
paratively flat. If I GouUl hit on a stanza, equal to 
Vhe SDii'dl birds rejoice, &c. 1 do myself honestly 
avow, that 1 think it a superior song.* John Ander- 
son myj'i — the song to this tune in Johnson's Museum, 
is my composition, and I think it not my worst ; if it 
suit you, take it. and welcome. Your collection of 
sentimental and pathetic songs, is in my opinion, very 
complete ; but not so your comic ones. Where are 
Tull icngorum. Lumps o' pudlin, Tibbie Fowler, and 
several others, which, in my humble judgment, are 
well worthy of preservation ? There is also one senti- 
mental song of mine in the .Museum, which never was 
known out of the immediate neighbourhood, unal 1 
got it taken down from a country girl's singing. It ia 
called Crai-iieburn Wood ; and in the opinion of Mr. 
Clarke, is one of the sweetest Scottish songs. He ia 
quite an enthusiast about it ; and j would take his 
ta.ste in Scottish music against the taste of most con- 



You are quite right in inserting the last five in your 
list, though they are certainly I rish. ^Iiepherds, I have 
lost my love ! is to me a heavenly air — what would 
you think of a set of Scottish verses to it? l have 

* It will be found in the course of this correspon- 
dpnce, that the I'ard produced a second stanza cf The 
Chevalier's Lament i.to which he here alludes) worlh» 
of the first. E. 



128 



LETTERS. 



made one to it a good wh'ile ago, which I think 

bill ill irs oi'igii)al state is not quite either, in a 
a. lady's song. I enclose an altered, nol ameiuled 
Copy for you, if you choose to set the tune to it, and 
let the Irish verses follow.' 



Mr. Erskine'a sougs are all pretty, but his Lone 
Vale, is divine. Yours, &c. 

Let me know just how you like these random hints. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS, 

Edinhursh, April, 1793. 
1 rejoice to find, my dear Sir, that balU'l-niaking 
eontinuea to be your hobby horse. (Jreat pity 'iwould 
be were it otherwise. I hope you will amble it away 
for many a year, and " witch the world with your 
horsemanship." 

1 know there are a good many lively songs of merit 
thai I have nol put down in the list sent you ; but I 
have them all in my eye. iWy h'a w is a l>oi-r giy. 
though a httle unequal, is a natural and very pleasing 
eu.ig, and I humbly think we ought nol to displace or 
alter it, except the last stanza.* 



No. XXI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
1 have yours, my dear Sii*, this moment. 1 shall 
answer it and your former letter, in my desultory way 
of saying whatever comes uppermost. 

The business of many of our tunes wanting, at the 
beginning, what fiddlers call a starling-note, is often a 
rub to us poor rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lada on Yarrow braes. 
That wander through the blooming heather," 

you may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
Ye wander," &c. 

My song. Here awa, there awa, as amended by Mr. 
Erskine, J entirely approve of, and return you.J 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only 
thini^ in which it is in my opinion reprehensible, ^'ou 
know I ought to know somulhing of my own trade. 
Of pathos, sentiment, and point, you are a complete 

* Mr. Thomson, it appears, did not approve of this 
•ong, even in its altered state. It does not appear in 
the correspondence ; but it is probably one to be found 
in his MSS. beginning, 

" Vestreen I got a pint of wine, 

A place where body saw na ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast of mine. 

The gowdon locks of Anna." 

Tt is highly characteristic of our Bard, but the strain 
of sentiment does not correspond with the air to which 
he proposes it should be allied. £. 

t The original letter from Mr. Thomson contains 
many observations on the Scottish songs, and on the 
ipanner of adapting tne words to the music, which, at 
his desire, are suppressed. The suhspqueiu letter of 
Mr. Burns refers to several of these observations. E. 

+ The reader has already st-en that Burns did not 
finally adopt all of Mr. Firskine's altei ations. K- 



g, and which i's the very essence of K 
ballad, I mean simplicity : now, if 1 nristake not, thit 
last feature you are a'httle apt to sacrifice to tn« 
foregoing. 



Ramsay as every other poet, has not been always 
equally happy in his piece ; still I cannot approve r>f 
taking such liberties with an author as Mr. VV. pro- 
poses doing wilh The last time I came o'ei 'he mo >r. 
Let a poet, if he chooses, take up the idea of another, 
and work it into apiece of his own . but to mangle the 
works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue is now 
mute for ever, in the dark and narrow house ; by 
Heaven 'twould be sacrilege 1 1 grant that Mr. V\''s, 
version is an improvement : but I know Mr. W. well, 
and esteem him much ; let him mend the song, as the 
Highlander mended his gun — he gave it a new stock, a 
new lock, and a new barrel. 

I do not by this object to leaving out imjrropet 
stanzas, where that can be done without spoiling the 
whole. One stanza in The lass of fatis's M II, must 
be left out: the song will be nothing worse for 11. I 
am not sure if we can take the same liberty wilh Coi-n 
lizs are honwe. I erhaps it might want the last 
stanza, and be the belter for it. Cnuld kail in Aher- 
deen you must leave wiih me yet a while. I have 
vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady whom I 
attempte.d to celebrate in the verses t'ooitilh caidd 
and restless love, .^t any rate my other song. Ore'tt 
grow the rashes, will never suit. That song is current 
in Scotland under the old title, and to the merry old 
tune of that name, which of course would mar the pro- 
gress of your song to celebrity. Voiir book will be the 
standard of Sicots songs for the fuuire: let this idea 
ever keep your judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebratefLtoaat in this country 
to suit Bonnie Dundee. I send you also a ballad to 
the Mill Mill O.* 

The last lime Tcame o'er the moor, I would fain at 
tempt to make a Scots song for, and let Ramsay's he 
the Bnglish set. You shall hear from me soon. When 
you go to London on this busiiipss. can you come by 
Pumfries? 1 have still several ^IS. ;<cots airs by me 
which 1 have picked up, mostly from the sinking nJ 
country lasses. They please me vastly but your 
learned luzs would perhaps be displeased wilh the 
very feature for which I like them. I call them sim- 
ple you would pronounce them silly. Do you kiio«^ 
a fine air called Jackie Hume's Lament ? 1 have a 
song of considerable merit to that air. I'll enclose 
you both the song and tune, as I had them ready lo 
send to .lohnson's MtisRum.t I send you likewise, to 
me, a very beautiful little air, which 1 had taken down 
from viva voce.^ Adieu I 



No. XXTl. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I had scarcely pot my last letter into the post-offire, 
when I took up the subject of The latl time I cam* 

* The song to the tune of Bonnie DuTflee. is that 
given in the Poems p. 87. The ballad to the Mill Mill 
O, is that beginning, 

'• When wild war's deadly Wast was blawn." 

t The song here mentioned is that given in the 
Poems, p. 88. O ken ye what Mrg o' the Mill I'Os got- 
fn .' 'I his song is surely Mr. burns' s own writing, 
though he does not generally praise his own songs so 
much. 

Note by Mr. Thomson. 
t The air here mentioned is that for which he wmte 
the ballad of Botmie Jean, given in p. 89 of the Poems. 



LETTERS. 



129 



• «r the mooT, and, ere T slept, drew the oiitlineR of 
the foregiiiiig.* How far i have succeeileJ, I leave 
Oil this, as oil every older occasion, to you to decifle. 
I «Avii mv vanity is flattered, when yon give my songs 
« place in yonr tleganl and soperb work ; but to be of 
service to tlie worK is my tiisl wish, y^.s I have often 
told you, I do not in a single instance wish you, out of 
eoniplinient to me, to insert any thing of mine. Une 
hint let me give you — whatever Mr. i leyel does, let 
biin not alter one inlaol the original tcottish airs; 
I mean in the song department ; but let our national 
music preserve its native features. Tliey are, I own, 
frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern 
rules ; but on that very eccentricity, perhaps, de- 
pends a great part of their elTeci. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS, 

EiinbuTgh, ^Vh April, n93. 
I heartily thank you, mj- dear Sir. for your last two 
letters, anil the songs which accompanied them. 1 am 
always both instructed and entertained by observa- 
tions' and the frankness with which you speak out 
your mind, is to me highly agreeable. It is very possi- 
ble I may uol have the true idea of simplicity in com- 
position. 1 confess there are several songs, of Alla^n 
Ramsay's for example, that 1 think silly enough, 
which another person, more conversant than I have 
been with country people, would perhaps call simple 
and natural. Lut the lowest scenes of simple nature 
will not please generally, if copied precisely as they 
.►re. The poet, like the painter, must select what will 
form an agreeable as well as a natural picture, (hi 
this subject it were easy to enlarge ; but at present 
suffice it to say, that I consider simplicity, rightly un- 
derstood, as a most essential quality in composition, 
and the ground-work of beauty in all the arts. I will 
gladly appropriate your most interesting new ballad, 
Wien wild war's deadly bias , &c. to the Mill Mill O, 
as well as the two other songs to their respective airs . 
but the third and fourth Unes of the first verse must 
undergo some little alteration in order to suit the 
nriusic. Pleyel does not alter a single note of the songs. 
That would be absurd indeed! With the airs which 
he introduces into the sonatas, T allow him to take 
such hberties as he pleases ; but that has uothuig to 
do with the songs. 



P. S; I wish you would do as you proposed with 
your Rigs of Barley. If the loose sentiments are 
Ihreshed out of it, I will find an air for it , but as to 
this there is no hurry. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

June, f793. 
When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend of mine, 
In whom I am much "interested, has fallen a sacrifice 
to these accursed times, you will easily allow that it 
might unhinge me for doing any good among bE>>iads. 
My own loss, as to pecuniary matters, is trifling but 
the total ruin of a much-loved friend, is a loss indeed. 
1 anion my seeming inattention to your last com- 
mands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the Mill Mill 
O.t What you think a defect I 



beauty : so yoii see how doctors differ. I shall now 
with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with your 
commands. 

Tou know Frazer, the hautboy-player in Edin- 
burgh — he is here, instructing a band of music for a 
I fencihle corps quartered in this country. Among 
many of his airs that please me, there is one, well 
known as a reel, by the name of Tke 'Quaker's Wiff; 
and which 1 rememlier a grand aunt of mine used to 
sing by the name of Liggciam Cosh, my bonnie uee 
lass. Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with an expres- 
sion that quite charms me. 1 became such an enthu- 
siast about it. that I made a song for it. which I here 
subjoin; and enclose t'razer's set of the tune. If they 
hit your fancy, they are at your service : if not. retura 
me the tune, and I will put it in Johnson's Museum, 
I think the song is not in my worst manner. 

Blythe hae I been on yon hill. 
As the lambs before me ; 

See Poems, p. 88. 

I should wish la hear how this pleases you. 



* See Poems, page 136. — Young Peggy. 

t The lines were the third and fourth. 
p. 87. 

'Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless. 
And mony a widow mourning." 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

2■5^/^ June, \'l^. 
Have you ever, my dear Sir, fell your bosom ready 
to burst with indignation on reading of those mighty 
villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate 
provinces, and lay natinns waste, out of the wanton- 
ness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble pas- 
sions? In a mood of this kind to-day, I recollected the 
air of Logan H'aier ; and it occurred to me that its 
querulous melody probably had its origin from the 
plaintive indignation of some swelling, suffering heart, 
fired at the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer ; 
and overwhelmed with private distress, the conse- 
quence of a country's ruin. Ifl have done any thing at 
all like justice to my feelings, the following song, com- 
posed in three quarters of an hour's meditation in my 
elbow chair, ought to have some merit. 

O T.ogan, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 

See Poems, p. 88. 

Do you know the following beautiful little fragmen 
in Witherspoon's collection of Scots Songs? 

" O gin my love were yon red rose, 
That grows upon the castle wa' ," 

See Poems, p. 89. 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful : and quite, 
so far as I know, original, it is too short for a song, 
else I would forswear you altogether, unless you gave 
it a place. I have often tried fn eke a stanza to it, bin 
in vain. After balancing myself for a musing five 
minutes, on the hind legs of my elbow chrl- 1 produced 
the following. 

As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the 
first number of Mr. Thomson's Musical Work was in 
the press, this gentleman ventured by iV!r. Krskjni,''a 
advice, to substitute for Ihem in that publication, 

" And eyes again with pleasure beam'd 
That had been blear'd with mourning." 



Though better suited to the music, these lines are infe- 
rior to the original. This is the only alteration adopt- 
ed by Mr. Thompson, which Burns did net approTe, 
or at least assent to. 

N2 



2S0 



LETTERS. 



The ve/ses are far Inferior to the foregoin?, I frankly 
confess : bul if wortliv uf iuserlion al all lliey niigln 
be first in place as every puet, who knows any Uiing 
of his trade, will husband his besi dioughu for a con 
eluding stroke. 

O, were my love vo.- ^to.-o tair, 
Wi' purple blossoi*'* i the »?ring ; 

See Poems, p. 89. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Monday, 1st July, 1793. 
I am extremely sorry, my good Sir. that any thing 
•hould happen to unhinge you. The times are terri- 
tily out of tut . , and when harmony will be restored, 
Heaven km ♦. 

The first book ot songs, just published, will be des- 
patched to you along with this. ' Let me be favored 
with your opinion of it frankly and freely. 

1 shall certainly give a place to the song you have 
written for the iccakir's H'..,«; it is quite enchanting. 
1 ray will you return the list of songs witli sucli uiis 
addi'd to it as you think ought to be included. 'I'be 
business now rests entirely on myself, the genllenien 
who originally agreed to join the speculation having 
requested to be off. No matter, a loser 1 can.iot be. 
'Ihe superior excellence of the work will create a gene- 
-al demand for it as soon as it is propeily known .>nd 
Were the sale even slower than it promises to be, I 
should be somewhat compensated formy labour, by the 
pleasure I shall receive from tl)e music. I cannot ex- 
press how much I am obliged to you for the exquisite 
I'ew songs you are sending me . but thanks, my triend. 
are a /icor return for what you have done: as I shall 
be beneriled by the publication, you must sufter me tc 
e/.ci'.'se a small mark of my gratitude," and to repeat 
it afterwards when 1 find it convenient. . o not re- 
turn it, for, by Heaven, if you do, our correspondence 
IS at dii end : and though this would be no loss to you, 
»'. would mar the publication, which under your aus- 
|.'iccs cannot fail to be respectable and inieresting. 



Wednes'Uiy 

I thank you for your delicate additional verses to the 
old fragment, and for your excellent song to Lugiin 
Water; Ihomson's truly elegant one will follow, for 
Jie English singer. ^ our apostrophe to statesmen is 
admirable : but I am not sure if it is quite suitable to 
the supj^iosed gentle character of the fair mourner who 
speaks it. 



No. XXVIl. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



July 2d, 1793 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I have just finished the following ballad, and, as I do | 
think it in my best style I send it you. Mr. Clarke, 
who wrote down the air from Mrs. Burns's woorl/i'fel 
w'd /, is very fond of it. and has given it a celebrity, by | 
teachiugit to some young ladies of the first fashion | 
heie. if you do not like the air enough to ^ive it a ] 
place in yoi.r collection please return it. 'ihe st 
ran may keep, as I remember it. 

There was a laiis and she was fair, 
.fit kirk and niarkt", to be seen ; 

See PueiiLs, p. 89. 

" Five pouuds. 



I have some thoughts of iaserting in your index, or 
in my notes llie naints of the fair ones the themes oi 
my songs 1 do not mean the name at lull but dashe* 
or asteiisms, so as ingenuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M. daughter to 
Mr. M. of D. one of you;- subscribe.s. 1 have nol 
painted her in the rank which she holds in life, bul in 
the dreks and character of a cottager. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON. 

July, 17S3. 
I assure you. my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me 
with your pecuniary parcel, it degrades me in my 
own eves. However to return it wouUl savoi.i v-f .t,"- 
fectation : but as to any more traflic of that debtor aud 
creditor kind, I swear by that honour which crowns 
the uprigiit statue of Robert IJurns's Integrity — on tne 
least molion of it, I wil'i. muignantly spurn the byiiast 
transaciion, and from that moment commence entire 
stranger to you ! Lurnss character for generosity of 
Eeiuimeiit and independence of mind, will, i trust long 
out live any of his wants which the cold unfeeling ore 
can 8U|),)ly : at least, I will take care that such a cha- 
racter he sliall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never 
did my eyes behold, in any musical work such elegance 
and correctness. \ our preface, too, is admirably 
written . only your partiality to me has made you say 
too much: however it will bind me down to double 
every effort in the future progress of the work. The 
following are a few remarks on the songs in the list you 
jeul me. I never copy what i write to you. so I may 
be often tautological, or perhajis conliadictory. 

The Flowers of the Forext is charming as a poem, 
and should be, and must be, set to the notes but, 
though out of your rule, the three stanzas beginning, 

" I iiae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 

are worthy of a place, were it but to immortailr.e the 
author of them, who is an oUl lady of my acquaintance 
and at this momen* living in h.diiibu'rgh. the is a 
Mrs. Cockburn , I forget of what place but from 
Roxburghshire. What a chaiming apostrophe is 

" () fickle fortune, why this cruel spoi ting, 
Why, why torment us--/yuor s ,ns of a dny !" 

The old ballad, I w'ak Iweie where firlen lien, ia 
silly to contemptibility.' My alteration of it in .lohii. 
son's is not nuich better. Mr. i mkerton. in his what 
he calls ancient ballad's, (many of them notorious, 
though beautiful enough, forgeries,) has the best set. 
It is full of his own interpolations, but no matter. 

In my next I will suggest to your consideration a fev 
songs which may have escaped your liiirried notice. 
In the mean time, allow me to oougraluiaie you now, 
as a brother c. the quill. ^ ou have cimm -ea your 
character and fame; which will now be tried for ages 
to come, by the illustrious jury of the Sons and jJaugh- 
ters cf Ta8te--all whom poesy can please, or music 
charm. 

Peiiig a bard of nature, 1 have some pretensions to 
second sight ; and 1 am warranted by the spirit tc 
foretell and affirm, that your great-giaiid-cbiUI will 
hold up your volumes and say with honest pride, 
'• this so much admired selection was the woik of my 
ancestor." 

♦ There is a copy of this ballad given in the account 
of the 1 arish of Kirkpalrick-f'leeming, (which contains 
the tomb of fair Helen rvine,) in the . tatistics of .•^ii 
John .vinclair. vol, xiii. p. ::7o. to which this chardc'.ei 
is certajnlv not appUcable. 



I 



LETTERS. 



131 



No. XXIX. 

MR, THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 1st August, 1793. 
DEAR SIR, 

1 had ihe pleasure of receiving your last two letters, 
Bi.d u;n happy to tind you are quite pleased with the 
aiypearauce ol' the ftrst Look. \V hen you come to hear 
tlie songs suug and acoompauied, you will be charmed 
Willi them. 

Tae bormie brucket Lassie, certainly deserves better 
ferses, and 1 hope you will matcli her. Cauld Kail_ 
in Aberdeen — L,e, me in ilds ae nigli , and several of 
the livelier airs, wait the muse's leisure : thes2 are 
peculiiirly worthy of her choice gifts, besides, you'll 
notice tliat, in airs of this sort, the singer can always 
do greater justice to the poet, than in the slower airs of 
'/'ke tluih aboon Trajuair, juord Gregory, and the 
liice , for iu the manner the latter are frequently sung, 
you must be contented with the sound, without the 
eense. Indeed both the airs and the words are dis- 
guised by the very slow, languid, psalm-singing style 
in which they are too often performed, they loose ani- 
uation and expression altogether ; and instead of 
. peaking to the mind, or touciiing tlie heart, they cloy 
upon the ear, and set us a yawning ! 

Your ballad, YVtere was a lass and she was fair, is 
iimple and beautiful, and shall undoubtedly grace my 

CoUectiou. ^ 



No. XXX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
MY DEAR THOMSON, 

I hold the pen for our friend Clarke, who at present 
's studying the music of the spheres at my elbow. 
The unur^Lum Sidus he thinks is rather out of tune; 
so until he rectify that matter, he cannot stoop to 
terrestrial affairs. 

Ke sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, and if 
more are wanted, he says you shall have them. 



Cuufouud your long stairs 1 



No. XXXI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
Your objection, my dear Sir, to the passages in my 
«orig of Logan Water, is right in one instance, but it is 
difficult to mend it : if 1 can. I will. The other pas- 
sase you object to, does not appear in the same light 
tome. 

I have tried my hand on Rnbin Adair, and you will 
probably think, with little success ; but it is such a 
cursed, cramp out-of-the-way measure, that I despair 
of doing any thing better to it. 

PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

While larks with little wing, 
Fann'd the pure air, 

See Poems, p. 89. 

So much for namby-pamby. T may. after all, try my 
hand on it in Scots versft. There i always find myself 
most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song I meant for 
CaulL K I. I in A'lny d'V/i. If it suits you to insert it, I 
shall be pleased as the herione is a favourite of mine ; 
if not, 1 shall also hi pleased, because I wish, and 



will be glad, to see you act decidedly on the business.* 
'lis a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor 
which you owe yourself. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

August, 1793. 
MY GOOD SIR, 

I consider it one of the most agreeable circumstances 
attending this piblication of mine, that it has pmoined 
me so many of your much valued epistles. 1 ray jimke 
my acknowledgments to St. Stephen for the lunos ; 
tell him I admit the justness of his complaint on niv 
staircase, conveyed in his laconic postcnpt tc your 
jeu d'esj/rit, which I perused more than once, without 
discovering exactly whether your discussion was mu- 
sic, astronomy, or politics : though a sagacious friend, 
acquainted with the convivial habits of the poet and 
tlie musician, offered me a bet of two to one, you were 
just drowning care together ; that an empty bowl was 
the only thing that would deeply affect you, and the 
only matter you could then study how to remedy ! 

I shall be glad to see you give Robin Adair a Scottish 
dress. Peter is furnishing him with an English suit 
for a change, and you are well nialclieJ together. 
Robin's air is excellent, though lie ceriainly has an out 
of the way measure as ever i oor . arnassian wight 
was plagued with. 1 wish you would invoke the muse 
for a single elegant stanza to be substituted for the 
concluding objectionable verses of JJjwn t .e Burn 
Dacie, so that this most exquisite song may no longer 
be excluded from good company. 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing from 
your John Andersi.n my Jo, which I am to have en- 
graved as a frontispiece to the humourous class of 
songs: you will be quite charmed with it I pronii.se 
you. The old couple are seated by the fire-side. 
Mrs. Anderson, in great good humour, is clapping 
John's shoulder's while he sjniles, and looks at her 
with such glee, as to show that he f liy recollects the 
pleasant days and nighls when they were j.r^i ac 
queni. The drawing would do honour to the pencil oi 
Teniers. 



No. XXXIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

"That crinkum-crankum tune Robin Adair, has run 
so in my head, and I succeeded so ill in my last at 
tempt, that I have ventured in this moiniii'g's walk, 
one essay more. You. my dear Sir, will remember ao 
unfortunate part of our worthy friend ('.'s story, 
which happened about three years ago. That struck 

y fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice al 



folio 



SONG. 



Had I a cave on some wild distant shore. 
Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing roar 
See l-'uenia, p. tO. 

By the way, I have met with a musical Iligiilander 
in firedalbane's Fencibles, which are quartere.l here, 
who assures me that he well remenibeis his mother's 
singing ijaelic sor.gs to both Ro-rln Adair and . ri rfti- 
ac'iree. 'Ihey certainly have more of the fccotch thaa 
Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inverness; so 
it could not be any intercourse with reland that could 
bring them ; — except, what 1 shrewdly suspect lu be 
the case, the wandering minstrels, harpers, and pipeia. 



* The song herewith 
Poems. 



that iu p. 91, of the 



132 



LETTERS. 



Bpetl to go frequently errant through the wilds both of 
^ (.utland and ire land, and su some Tavouiite airs might 
Ok common to both. A case in point — They have 
litlely in Ireland, published an Irish air as they say ; 
called Cnun da dtliah. J he I'act is. in a publication of 
Corri s, a great wliile ago. you will find the same air, 
called a Highland one, with a Gaelic song sel to it. 
it.s name there, I think, is Oran (Jaoil, and a fine air 
it is. J)rt ask honest Allan, or the liar. Gaelic Par- 
■uii about these mat 



Geordje's Bi/rfi, when sunsjsiow wi,h expression : I 
have wished that it had had better poetry ; that 1 ha»« 
endeavoured to supply as follows : 

Adown winding Nith I did wander,* 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; 

■See Poems, p. 90. 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a corner m 
your book, as she is a particular flame of his. She is 
a Miss P.M. sister to Bonnie Jam. They are bmh 
pupils of h-s. You shall hear from me the very first 
gristlgetfrommyihyming mill. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Let me in tk:.- ae night, I will consider. I am glad 
thai you are pleased with my song. Had la cave, ifc., 
as 1 liked it .myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening with a volume of 
tne Museum in my hand ; when turning up Allan 
Wa'er, " What luimbers shall the muse repeat," &c. 
as the words appeare<l to me lather unworthy of so fine 
an air, and recollecting that it is on your list, I sat and 
raved under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one 
tosutttiiu measure. 1 may be wrong . but 1 think it 
not in my worst style. Vou must know, that in 
Ramsay's Tea-table, where the modern song first ap- 
peared,' the ancient name of the tune, .illan says, is 
Allan H'aiHi-. or My love Annie^s very bjimie. 'this 
last has certai::ly i;?en a line of the original song ; so 
1 look up the idea, and as yon Will see, have introduc- 
ed the line in its place which I presume it formerly oc- 
cupied ; though 1 likewise ;;ive you a ckaains line, if 
il should not hit the cut of your fancy. 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 
White Phoebus sank beyond IJenleddi,* 

iiee Poems, p. 90. 

Bravo ! says I, it is a good song. Should you think 
■o too (not else) you can set the music to it, and let 
the other foliow as tinglish verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make more 
Terses in it than all the year else 

God bless you 1 



No. XXXV. 

MB. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
Id Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, one of your 
airs ; I admire it much . and yesterday I set the fol- 
lowing verses to it. Lrbani, whoml have met with 
here, begged them of me, as he admires the air muctt ; 
but as 1 understand that he looks with rather an evil 
eye on you.- work, 1 did not choose to comply. How- 
ever, if the song does not suit your taste, i maypos- 
•ibly send it him. The set of the air which I had in 
my eye is iu Johnson's Museum. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, t 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 

See Poems, p. 90. 



Another favourite 



mine, is, The mucJcin 



A mountain, west of Strath-Allan, 3,n09 feet high. 



t In some of the MSS. the four first lines run thus ; 
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo, 
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo , 
The' father and mother, aud a' should say no, 
O whistle, a»id I'l' come to thee, my jo. 

See also Letter, No. LXXVIl. 



No. XXXVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON 

August, 1793. 
That tune, Cauld Kail,\a such a favourHe of yo'irs, ' 
iaat I once more roved out yesterday for a glo'amin- 
shot at the muses :t when the muse tliat presides o'er 
the shores of Nlth. or rather my old insijiring, dearest 
nymph, Colia, whispered me the following, i have 
two reasons for thinking that it was my eariy, swiiet, 
simple inspirer that was by my elbow, " smooth glid- 
ing without step," and pouring the song on my gjow- 
ing fancy. In the first place, since 1 left Colia's' native 
hainus, not-a fragment of a poet has arisen tn cheer 
her solitary musiiigs, by catching inspiration from her ; 
so 1 more than suspect that she has followed me hither, 
oral least makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the 
last stanzas of this song 1 send you, is the very words 
that Colia taught me many years ago, and which i 
set to an old Scots reel in Johnson's Museum. 

Come, let me take thee to my breast. 
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 

See PocTns, p. 91 . 

If you think the above will suit your idea of voor 
favourite air, 1 shall be highly pleased. The las' 'ine 
I came o'er the moor, 1 cannot meddle with, as to 
mending it; and the musical world have tieeii so long 
acciistiimed to Ramsay's words, that a different songT 
thfugh positively superior, would not be so well receiv- 
ed, lam not fond of choruses to songs, so I have not 
made one lor the foregoing. 



No. XXXVII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793 
DAINTY DAVIE.« 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 

To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 

^ee Poems, p. 91 . 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, is to 
the low part of the tune. See Clarke's set of it in the 
Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawled out the 
tune to twelve lines of poetry,' which is **** nonsense. 
Four lines of song, and four of chorus is the way. 

* This song, certainly beautiful, would appear to 
more advantage without the chorus ; as is indeed the 
case with several other songs of our author. E. 

t Gloamin — twilight: probably from glooming. A 
beautiful poetical word whiih c;j!.l t.zbf .dopted in 
England. j1 g^oa7»m-s/i.o(, a twiUght interview. 

X Dainty Davie is the title of an old Scotch song, 
from which Burns has taken nothing but the title ioi 
the measure. £. 



LETTERS. 



133 



No. XXXVIIl. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 1st. Sept. 1793. 
fcn DEAR SIR, 

i^'iice writing you last, I have received half a dozen 
•iiiii^s with which I am delighted beyond expression. 
The humour and fancy of iVhis le, and Pll come to yuii, 
my lad, will render it nearly as great a favourite as 
Diincim Oi ay. Come let me take thee to my breas: — 
Adoirn windlm Nith, and By Allan stream, &c. are 
full of imagination and feeling, and sweetly suit the 
airs for which they are intended, had la cnve on 
some wild distan' shore, is a striking and atfecting 
composition. Our friend, to whose story it refers, 
read it with a swelling heart. I assure you. The union 
we are imw forming, I think, can never be broken : 
these sofigs of yours will descend with the music to the 
latest posterity, and will be fondly clierished so long 
as genius, taste and sensibility exist in our island. 

While the muse seems so propitious. I think it right 
to enclose a list of all the favours I have to ask of her, 
no fewer than twenty and three ! 1 have burdened 
the pleasant I eter with as many as it is probable he 
will attend to : most of the remaining airs would puz- 
rle the Knglish poet not a little : they are of thai pecu- 
liar measure and rhythm, that they must be familiar 
to him who writes for them. 



No. XXXIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 
You may readily trust, ray dear Sir, that any exer- 
tion in my power is heartily at your service. Lut one 
tiling I must hint to you . the very name of Peter Irin- 
Jai- is of great service to your publication, so get a verse 
from him now and then . though I have no objection, 
as well as I can, to bear the burden of the business. 

Yon know that my pretensions to musical taste are 
merely a few of nature's instincts, untaught and un- 
tutored by art. For this reason, many musical com- 
positions particularly where much of the merit lies in 
counterpoint however they may transport and ravish 
the ears of you connoisseurs, aftect my simple lug no 
otherwise than merely as melodious din. On the 
other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted with 
many little melodies, which the learned musician 
despises as silly and insipid. I do not know whether 
the old ail Hey lu ie tai :it may rank among this num- 
ber: but well I know that, with Frazer's hautboy, it 
has often tilled my eyes with tears. There is a tradi- 
tion, which 1 have met with in many places of clcot- 
land, that It was Robert l.ruce's march at the battle 
of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wan- 
derings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the 
theme of Liberty and Independence, which 1 threw 
into a kind of Scottish ode, tilled to the air, that one 
might suppose to be the gallant Royal ."-'cot's address 
to Ins heroic followers on that eventful morning.* 

So may God ever defend the cause of truth and 
Liberty, as be did that day ! — Amen. 

P. S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly 
phased with it, and begged me to make soft verses for 
It : bill 1 had no idea of giving myself any trouble on 
the suliject. till the accidental recollection of that 
glorious struggle for freedom, associated with the 
giowing ideas of some other struggles of the same 
nature, not quite so ancient, roused my rhyming 
mania. Clarke's set of the tune, with bis bass, you 

* Here followed Bruce's address as given in the 
f'oems, p. 92. 

I hi« Miitiie strain was conceived by our poet during 
« iloi ui iiinong the wilds of ulen-Ken in ijalloway. 



will find in the Mnsenm : though 1 am afraid that tha 
air is not what will entitle it to a vlace iu your elegant 
selection. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I dare say, my dear Sir, that you will begin to think 
my correspondence is persecution. No matter, 1 can't 
help it ; a ballad is my hobbyhorse : whirh though 
otherwise a simple sort of harmless idiotical beasl 
enough, has yet this blessed headstrong property, that 
when once it has fairly made off with a hapless wight, 
it gets so enamoured with the tingle-gingle, tinkle gin- 
gle, of its own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgar- 
lic, the bedlam-jockey, quite beyond any useful point 
or post in the common race of man. 

The following song 1 have composed for Oran Gaoil, 
the Highland air that you tell me in your last, you 
have resolved to give a place to in your book. I have 
this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing 
from the mint. If it suit you, welll — if not, 'tia also 
Weill 



Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 
Thou goest, thou darling of my heart 1 

See Poems, p. 91. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 5th September, 1793. 
T believe it is generally allowed that the greatest 
modesty is the sure attendant of the greatest merit. 
While you are sending me verses that even .Shakspeare 
might be proud to own, you speak of t^em as if they 
were ordinary productions! 'lour heroic ode is W 
me the noblest composition of the kind in the Scotlioh 
language. I happened to dine yesterday with a partir 
of our friends, to whom 1 read it. They were ail 
charmed with it, inlreated me to find out a suitable 
air for it, and rejjrobaled the idea of giving -t a tune 
so totally devoid of interest or grandeur as fii-y :u it 
tail le. Assuredly your parlaihly for mis tunt must 
arise from the ideas associated in your mind by the 
tradition concerning it : for 1 never heard any perison, 
and 1 have conversed again and again, with tht great- 
est enthusiasts for liScoltish airs, I say 1 never bearJ 
any one sjieak of it as worthy of notice. 

I have been running over the whole hundred airs, Oi 
which 1 lately sent you the list . and I think I.ewit 
Gordon, is most happily adapted to your ode : at 
least with a very shght variation of the fourth line, 
which 1 shall presently submit to you. 'I'h-^re is in 
JUewie Gordon more of the grand than the plaintive, 
particularly when it is sung with a degree of spirit 
which your words would oblige the singer to give it. 
I wo\ild have no scruple about substituting youruda 
in the room of Lewie Gordon, wliich has neiiher ihe 
interest, the grandeur, nor the poetry thai character- 
ize your versus. Now tiie variation 1 have lo sii^uea*. 
upon the last line of each verse, the only line loo short 
for the air, is as follows ; 

Verse 1st, Or to zlorious victorie. 

2d, Chains — chains and slaverie. 
3d, Let him, lei Uim turn and Hie. 
4<A, Let him bravely follow me. 
5i/i, But ikey shall, they shall be fre*. 
6th, Let us, let us do or die I 

It you connect each line with its own vei se, I do not 
think you will find that either the sentiment or the 
expressiuu loses any of its energy. 'I'hu only line 



134 



LETTERS. 



which I dislike in tlie whole of the song is, " Welcome 
lo your gory bed."' Would not uuotlier word be 
prelerabie to welcome? In your next I will expect to 
be inrormed whether you agree to what I have pro- 
!)(/sed. 'the little alterations I submit with the great- 
MKt deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made for Oran 
Gaoil will ensure celebrity to the air. 



No, XLII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR, THOMSON. 

September, 1793, 
I have received your list, my dear Sir, and here go 
my observations on it.* 

Unien the burn Davie, I have this moment tried an 
alteration, leaving out the last half of the third stanza, 
and the first half of the last stanza, thus : 

As down the burn they took their way 

.And thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he afi did lay, 

A nd love was ay the tale. 

With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew ?" 
Q,uoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you."t 

Thro' the icood Laddie — I am decidedly of opinion 
that both in this, and There'll never be peace ill Javnn 
co:nes liame, the second or high part of the tune, being 
a repetiiioM of the first part an octave higher, is only 
for instrumental music, one\ would be much better 
omitted in singing. 

Cnwrlen-knoiees. Rpmember in yonr index that the 
■oiig in pure iCnglish to this tune, beginning, 

' When summer comes the swains on Tweed.' 

II the production of Crawford, Robert was his 
Christian name. 

Lrt'ldie lie near m-e, must lie by me for some time. I 
do not know tlie air ; and uijlil 1 am complete master 
of a tune, in my own singing, (such as itis,) I can never 
compose for it. My way is : I consider the poetic 
fcentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical 
expression; then choose my theme begin one stanza . 
when that is composed, wliich is generally the most 
difficult part of the business. I wallc out, sit down now 
and then look out for objects in nature around me 
that are in unison and harmony with the cosilations of 
my fancy, and workings of my "bosom- humming every 
now and then the air, with tlie verses I have framed. 
When I feel my muse beginning lo jade, 1 retire to the 
Boliiary fire side of my study, and there commit my 
effusions to paper . swinging at intervals on the hind 
legs of my elbow chair, by way of calling forth my 
own critical strictures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, 
this, at home, is almost invariably m.v way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

Gill M trice, I am for leaving out. Tt s a plaguy 
length ; the air itself is never sung ; and its place can 

* Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publication. 
In his remarks, the bard proceeds in order, and goes 
through the whole . but on many of them he merely 
■ignifies his approbation. .^Ml his remarks of any im- 
portance are presented to the reader. 

t This alteration, Mr. Thomson has adopted for at 
least intended to adopt) instead of the last stanza of 
the original song, which is objectionable, in point of 



well be supplied by one or two songs for fine ali- fewt 
are not in your list. For instance, ('ra:i"bur tK, H 
and Roy's Wife. The first, beside its intrinsic t-.vrit, 
has novelty ; and the last has high merit, as we>i a» 
great celebrity. I have the original words of a song 
for the last air, in the haud-wiiting of the lady who 
composed it . and they are superior to any edition of 
the song which the public has yet seen.* 

Hishland Laddie. The old set will please a mer« 
Scotch ear best : and the new an Italianized one. 
There is a third, and what Oswald calls the old Hisli^ 
land Laddie, which pleases more than either of them. 
It is sometimes called Gin dan Johnnie; it being tli» 
air of an old humorous tawdry song of that name. Vou 
will find it in the Museum, '/ hae been at Crookiedeh 
&c. ) would advise you in this musical quandary, t» 
offer up your prayers to the muses for inspiring direc- 
tion ; and in the mean time, wailing for this direction 
bestow a libation to Bacchus : and there .s not a doubl 
but you will hit on a judicious choice. FrobaLum Est. 

Auld Sir Simon, I must beg you to leave out, and 
put in its place The Quaker's Wife. 

Blithe hae I been o'er the hill, is one of the finest songi 
ever I made in my life : and besides, is composed on a 
young lady, positively the most beautiful, lovely wo 
man in the world. As 1 purpose giving you the names 
and designations of all my heroines, to apiiear in some 
future edition of your work, perhaps half a century 
hence, you must certainly include The bonniest lass i,i 
a' the warld in your collection. 

Daintie Davie, T have heard sung, nineteen thousand 
nine hundred and ninety-nine limes, and always with 
ihe chorus to the low part of the tune ; and nothing hin 
surprised me so much as your opinion on this sjbjecl. 
If it will not suit as 1 proposed, we will lay two of the 
stanzas together, and then make Ihe chorus follow. 

Fee him father, T enclose you Frazer's set of thi« 
tune when he plays it slow in fact he makes it the 
language of desjiair. I slial! here give you two slanzas 
in that style, merely to try if it will be any improve- 
ment. Were it possible in .singing lo give it half the 
pathos which Frazer gives it in [jlayiug, it would make 
an admirably patlietic song. I do not give these versee 
for any merit they have. I composed them at the time 
in which Fade Allaii'n mit'iar (del. ha' was abow (he 
liack o' miinish' ; and by the lea side of a bowl ot 
punch, which had overset every mortal in company, 
except the hautbois and the muse. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. 
See Poems, p. 91. 

Jockey and Jennie I would discard, and in its place 
would put There's nae I .clc alj'iut the 'i use, which has 
a very pleasant air, and which is positively the finest 
love ballad in that style in the fc^cotlish or perhaps any 
other language. Wue/t she came ben she bobbi , as an 
air. is more beautiful than either, and in the amiante 
way, would unite with a charming sentimental ballad. 

Salt ye my father? is one of my greatest favourites. 
The evening before last. I wandered out, and began a 
tender song ; in what 1 think is its native style. I 
must premise that the old way, and the way to gi^e 
must eflect, is to have no starting note, as the fiddlers 
call it, bul to burst at once into the pathos. Every 
country girl sing3--.S.Me ye my father, &c. 

My song is but just begun . and I should like, befoie 
I proceed, to know your opinion of it. 1 have sprinkled 
it with ihe Scottish dialect, bul it may easily be turned 
into correct Knglish.f 

* This song, so much admired by our bard, will b« 
found at the bottom of p. 144. E, 



t This song begins, 

" Where are the juvs I ha* met i 



1 the moraine "*" £. 



i 



LETTERS. 



135 



Todl'n knme. Urbanl mentioned an idea of his 
whioli liaa loni; lieen iniue . tti.it lliis air is liiglily sus- 
CKp'ihlt of patlios accoi-diugly, you will soon liear liiin 
at vuur coiiceri try it to a soogol' tuuie in tlie .vluseiim 
ivV/t/i/.-y '1/iJ b. rip.s ij' h'jiine JDoon. i>iie song more 
and 1 liuve done : Auld I 114 syne. \ lie air is but 
I'leli'tcre ; but the lollowin!; son^, the old sung of the 
Okie n times, and which has never been in print, nor 
even ni manuscript until I took it down froin an old 
mail's singing, is enough to recommend any air.* 

AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min' 1 

See Poems, p. 92. 

Now, I suppose I have tired your patience fairly. 
You must, alter all is over, have a number of ballads, 
Druperiy so called. U.U Muidf, Truneiit Muir, 
kVr'keison's h'areioell. Ba' le of Sheriff Muir, or VFt- 
ran and the;/ ran, (1 Know the author of this charming 
oallad, and his history,) Ua- liknu.e, Barbarn AUen, 
(I can furnish a finer set of this tune than any that has 
yet appeared,) and besides, do you know tliai I really 
have the old tune to which fke Cherry an I the Slat 
was sung; and which is mentioned as a w^ell known 
air iu Scotland's Oomplaiut, a book published before 
poor Mary's days. It was then called T,'Le Ban'cs u' 
HeL con; an old poem which 1 mkerton has brought to 
light. \ ou will see all this in 'J ytler's history of cicot- 
tish music. The tune, to a learned ear, may have no 
great merit but it is a greai curiosity. 1 have a good 
many original things of tliis kind. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON. 

September, 1793. 
T am happy, my dear Sir, that my ode pleases you so 
much. Your idea " honour's bed," is. though a beau- 
tiful, aiiackneyed idea , so, if you please, we will let 
the line stand as it ia.. I liave altered the song as fol- 
iows: 

BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace hied, 
Scots, wham Bruce has often led ; 

See Poems, p. 92. 

N. B. I have borrowed the last stania from the 
common stall edition of Wallace. 

" A false usurper sinks in every foe, 
And liberty returns with every blow." 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you had 
enough of my correspondence. The post goes, and my 
head aches miserably. One comfort ! I suffer so 
much, jlist now. in this world, for last night's joviality, 
that I shall escape scot-free for it in the world to come. 
Aiueu. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

\2ih September, 1793. 
A thorsand thanks to you, my dear Sir. for your ob- 
er>-aiionson the list of my songs. 1 am happy to f.nd 
/our ideas so much in unison with my own, respecting 
the generality of the airs as well as the verses. About 
•orr.e of them we dilier, but there is no disputing about 

* This song of the olden time is excellent. It ia wor- 
thy of our bnrd. 



hobby-horses. I shall not fail to profit by tho remarki 
you make ; and to re-consider the whole with atten. 
lion. 

Do.in'y Davie must be spng two stanzas together, 
and then the chorus : 'tis the proper way. I agrt» 
with you that there may be somethi«ig of pathos, or 
tenderness at least, in the air of l-'ee him Fa her, when 
performed with feeling ; but a tender cast may be 
given almost to any lively air, if you sing it veiy 
slowly, expressively, and with serious words. I am, 
however, clearly and invariably for retaining tne 
cheerful tunes joined to their own humorous verses, 
wherever the verses are passable, h'ut the sweet song 
for F^e liiin Fattier, which you begun about the back 
of midnight, 1 will publish as an additional one. Mr. 
James lialfour. the king of good fellows, and the best 
singer of the lively Scottish ballads that ever existed, 
has charmed thousHuds of companies with Fee liim 
t'tit'ier, and with 'I'lidli 1 haine also, to the old words, 
which never should be disonited frtim either of these 
airS'-Some Bacchanals 1 would wish to discard. F:/, 
les «' to the bridal, for instance, is so coarse and vul- 
gar, that I think it fit only to be sung in a company of 
drunken colliers. ai\d Snw yemy FaMerl appears to 
me both indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic ode. I 
think, with great defereno.e to the poet, that a prudent 
general would avoid saying any thing to his soldiers 
which would tend to make death more frightful than 
it is. Gory presents a disagreeable image to the min I, 
and to tell them " Welcome to your gory bed," see.ns 
rather a discouraging address, notwithstanding the 
alternative which follows. I have shown the song to 
three friends of excellent taste, and each of them ofi- 
jected to this line, which emboldens me to use the free- 
dom of bringing it again under your notice. 1 would 



" Now prepare for honour's bed. 
Or for glorious victorie." 



No. XLV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
" Who shall decide when doctors disagree ?" My 
ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. Your 
proposed alterations would, in my opinion, make it 
tame. I am exceedingly obliged fo you for putting nie 
on reconsidering it . as 1 think I have much improved 
it. Instead of "soger! hero 1" I will have it "' Cale- 
donian ! on wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it over and over : and to the world 
some way or other it shall go as it is. At the same 
time it will not in the least hurt me. should you leave 
it out altogether, and adhere to your first intention of 
adopting Logan's verses.* 

* Mr. Thomson has very properly adopted this song 
(if it may be so called) as the bard presented it to him. 
He has attached it to the air of Lewie Gordon, and 
perhaps among the existing airs he could not find a 
better ; but the poetry is suited to a much higher sti aiu 
of music, and may employ the genius of some Scottish 
Handel, if any such should in future arise. The reader 
will have observed, that Burns adopted the alterations 
proposed by his friend and correspondent in former in- 
stances, with great readiness: perhaps, imleed, on all 
indifferent occasions. In the present, instance, how- 
ever, he rejected them, though repeatedly urged, with 
determined resolution. With every respect for th^e 
judsment of Mr. Thomson and his friends, we may ba 
satisfied that lie did so. He. who in prepariue for an 
engagement, attempts to withdraw his inineinatioa 
from images of d^ath, will probably have boi in>pertect 



136 



LETTERS. 



1 have finished my song to Saw ye my Father I and 
n Kiiglish, as you will see. That there is a syllable 
;ao much for the expi ensign of the air, is true : but al- 
.0 w me to say, that the mere dividing of a dotted croch- 
et into a crochet a'ld u quaver, is not a great matter : 
however, in that i have no pretensions to cope in judg- 
ment with you. Of the poetry I speak with confidence , 
but the music is a busiuesj where I hint my ideas with 
the utmost diffidence. 

The old verses nave merit, though unequal, and are 
popular : my advice is, to set the air to tire old words, 
Sud let mme follow as English verses. Here they are ; 

FAIR JENNY. 

Seep. 134. 

Tune — " Saw ye my Father." 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 

See Poems, p. 92. 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! the post goes, so I shall defer 
■ome other remarks until more leisure. 

No. XLVI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I have been turning over some volumes of songs, to 
find verses whose measures would suit the airs, for 
which you have allotted me to find English songs. 

Por Muirland Willie, you have, in Ramsay's Tea- 
tahle, an excellent song, beginning, " Ah ! why those 

■access, and is not fitted to stand in the ranks of battle, 
where the litietties of a kingdom are at issue. Of such 
men the conquerors of IJannockhurn were not compos- 
ed. Bruce's troops were inured to war. and familiar 
with all its sufferings and dangers. On the eve of that 
memorable day, their spirits were, without doubt. 
Wound up to a pitch of enthusiasm, suited to the occa- 
sion . a pitch of enthusiasm, at which danger becomes 
attractive, and the most terrific forms of death are no 
loi'ger terrible. Such a strain of sentiment, this heroic 
" welcome" may be supposed well calculated to ele- 
vate — to raise their hearts high above fear, and to 
nerve their arms to the utmost pitch of mortal exer- 
tion. These observations might be illustrated and sup- 
ported by a reference to that martial poetry of all na- 
tions from the spirit-stiring strains of Tyrtjeus, to the 
war-song of General Wolfe. Mr. Thompson's obser- 
vation, that " Welcome to your gory bed, is a discour- 
aging address," seems not sufficiently consider«d. Per- 
haps, indeed, it may be adntitted, that the term ^ory 
is somewhat objectionable, not on account of its pre- 
venting a fiightful. but a disagreeable image to the 
mind. But a great poet uttering his conceptions on an 
interesting occasion, seeks always to present a picture 
that is vivid, and is uniformly disposed to sacrifice the 
delicacies of taste on the altar of the imagination. 
And it is the privilege of superioi genius, by producing 
a new association, to elevate expressions that were 
origmally low, and thus to triumph over the deficiencies 
of laiigi.age. hi how many instances might this be 
wr^mplified from the works of our immortal Shaks- 
(teare '. 

" Who would /arrfe/s bear. 
To groan and atcta under a weary life :— 
\Vhei4 he himself might his yuieius make 
With a bare bodkin .'" 

were easy to pularge. but to suggest such reflec- 
Hous u probably sufficient. 



tears in Nelly's eyes ?" As for The CoUUtU Doeht$^ 
take the following old Bacchanal. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give thee. 

See Poems, p. 92 

The faulty line in Logan- Water, 1 mend thus : 

" How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry 1" 

The song otherwise will pass. As to M'Chregnirti 
Run Ruih, you will see a song of mine to it, with a 
set of the air superior to yours, in the Museum, vol. ii. 
p. iai. Tne song begins, 

" Raving winds around her blowing," 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are down- 
right Irish. Ifthey were like the Barik<s of Banna, 
for instance, though really Irish, yet in the Scottish 
taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so find of 
Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an 
additional number ? We could easily find this quanti- 
ty of charming airs : I will take care that you shall 
not want songs : and I assure you that you woula find 
it the most saleable of the whole. If you do not ap> 
prove o( Hoy's M'i/e, for the music's sake, we shall not 
insert it. Deil take the wars, is a charming long ; M 
is, Siw ye my Peggy 7 There's na luck ab lui Ike house 
well deserves a place. I cannot say that. O'er Iht 
hills and Jar awa, strikes me as equal to your selection 
This is no mine ain /!oi.«e, is a great favourite air ot 
mine : ajid if you will send me your set of it, I will 
task my muse to her highest effort. What is your opin 
ion of I fiace laid a hen in m saw! 7 I like it much. 
Vour Jacobite airs are pretty: and there are many 
otliei-8 of the same kind, pretty ; but you have nul 
room for them. Vou cannot, I think, insert Pie, Ul 
us a' to tlie bridal to any other words than its own. 

What plgases me, as simple and n'^ii-e, disgusts you 
as ludicrous and low. lor this reason, F e. L'ice me 
my c'jgie, xirs—Fie, let us a' to the bridal, v/ilh several 
others of that cast, are to me highly pleasing : while, 
■•>aw ye my Fa tier, ryr Saw ye my Mjther ; delight* 
me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, 
Ken ye what Mvg o' tlie M U has goi'en? pleases my- 
self so much lliat I cannot try my hand at another song 
to the air so I shall not attempt it. i know yon will 
laugh at all this ; but, " Ilka man wean hia bell hi* aiu 
gait." 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

October, 1793. 
Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed 
laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Erskine !• The 
recollection that he was a coadjutor in your publica- 
tiiin, has till now scared me from writing to you, or 
turning my thoughts on composing for you. 

1 am pleased that vou are reconciled to the air of th« 
(Quaker's H'ife ; though, by the by an old Highland 
gentleman, and a deep antiquarian, tells me it is a 
(Jaelic air, and known by the name of Letier 'm ctiosn. 
The following verses, 1 hope, will please you as ao 
English song to the air. 



Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
I'hiue my lovely Naucy ; 



See Poems, p. 93. 



Your objection to the English song 1 propcsed foi 
John Andenaon myji, isceitainly just. The fi lluwinf 
is by an old acquaintance of mine, and i thnik hai 
merit. The song was never in priiil, which 1 think ia 

* The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to l/ord Kel!y, 
whose melancholy death Mr. Ihoinson had coininuid- 
caled in un excellent letter, which he has gup[ii'u«;ied 



LETTERS. 



m 



•o much tn your fikvour. The more original good poe- 
irw your colleciiou cuuiaiiiis, ii ceriaiuly lias so much 
Uie more merit. 



SONG. 
BY GAVIN TURNBULL. 

O, condescend, dear charming maid, 
My wretched state to view ; 

A lender swain to love belray'd, 
And sad despair, by you. 

While here, all melancholy, 

My passion I deplore. 
Yet, urged by stern resistless fata 

1 love thee more and more, 

1 heard of love, and with disdain, 
'i he urchin's power denied ; 

I laugh'd at every lover's pain, 
And mock'd them when they sigh'd. 

But how my state is alter'd ! 

'J'hose happy days are o'er ; 
For all thy unrelenting hate, 

1 love thee more and more, 

O, yield, illustrious beauty, yield, 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And though victorious in the field, 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm th 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And, grateful I shall bless thee still, 

Aud love thee more and more. 



The following address of Turubull's to the Nigntm- 
irale. will suit as an English song to the air, Tiiere was 
a lass and she was Jair. by the by, '1 uriibuU has a 
freat many songs in MS. which 1 can command, if 
you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend 
of mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour, but 1 hke 
■ome of his pieces very much. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 
BY G. TURNBULL. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, 
That ever tried the plaintive strain, 

Awake thy tender tale of love. 

And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

For though the muses deign to aid. 

And teach him smoothly to complain, 
Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, 

Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons. 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain : 

Their tales approves, and still she shuns 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

When evening shades obscure the sky. 
And bring the solemn hours again. 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, 
And soothe a poorj||orsaken swaiii. 



1 shall Just transcribe another of Turnbull's which 
would go charmingly to Lewie Gordon. 



BY G. TURNBULL. 



Let me wander where 1 will. 
By shady wood or winding rill ; 



Where the sweetest May-horn flriW^rs 
t aim the meadows, deck the bowers; 
W here tlje linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

If at rosy dawn I chuse, 

To indulge the smiling muse ; 

If I court some cool retreat, 

To avoid the noon-tide heat : 

If beneath the moon's pale ray. 

Through unfrequented wilds i itray, 

Let me wander where 1 will, 

Laura haunts my fancy still. 

When at night the drowsy gad 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod, 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise ; 
While with boundless joy I rove, 
Through the fairy-land of love ; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



The rest of your letter I shall aniwer at lome other 

opportunity. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

1th. November, 1793. 
MY GOOD SIR, 

After so long a silence, it gave me peculiar pleasure 
to recognize your well-known hand, for 1 had begun to 
be apprehensive that all was not well~with you. I ani 
happy to find, however, that your silence did not pro- 
ceed from that cause, and that you have got among the 
ballads once more. 

I have to thank you for your English song to Leiser 
'm ckoss, which I think extremely good, although the 
colouring 's warm. Your friend Mr. Turnbull's songe 
have, doubtless considerable merit ; and as you have 
the command of his manuscripts, I hope you will find 
out some that will answer, as English songs, to the aire 
yet unprovided. 



No. XLTX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 1793. 
Tell me how you like the following verses to the tui 
o{ Jo Janet. 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 
Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 

See Poems, p. 93. 



Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

WLkii sorrow wrings thy gentle heart. 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee 1 

See Poema, p. 110. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, llth April, 1794. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Owing to the distress of our friend for the loss ol hie 
child, at tiie time uf his receiving your adourubla but 



138 



LETTERS. 



melmncnoly letter. 1 hsn\ noi an opportu-iity till lately, 
ol ijcrusiiig il.* How 3ori-y I am to fiiitl . iiriis saying, 
" Caiisi thou not minister to a mind diseased?" wliile 
h^ is delighting ollicrs troni one end of the island to the 
oihe'-. Like the hypor.liondriac who went to consult a 
physician upon his case — 'lo says the doctor, and see 
the famous Cariuii, who keeps all i aris in good hu- 
mour, las! Sir, replied the patient, 1 am that un- 
happy Carlir.i ! 

Your plan for out meetnig together pleases me 
greatly and I trust that oy some means or other it will 
Soon take place Lut your Bacchanalian challenge 
almost frightens me, for I am a niiseraole weak drinker. 

Allan is much gratified by your good opinion of his 
talents. He has jusl begun a sketch from your r'or- 
t<i'.^ Satttrrlr,,/ Xirln. and if it i>leases himself in the 
dpsien. he will probably etch or engiave it. In sub- 
jects of the pastoral and humorous kind, he is perhaps 
unrivalled by any artist living, lie fails a little in 
giving beauty and grace to his females, and his colour- 
ing is KOwAr'e, otherwise his paintings and drawings 
would be in greater request. 

I like the music of the Sutor's Dnchter. and will con- 
sider whether it shall "oe added to the last volume ; your 
verses to it are pretty : but your humorous Knglish 
»ong, 10 suit Jo Janet, is inimitable. AVliat think you 
of itie air. iVi:ltina mile of E'Hnbnrsh .' It has al- 
way-s struck me as a modern imitation, but it is said to 
be Oswald's, and is so much liked '.iu*lT believe I must 
include it. The verses are little better than tinmby 
pamby. Do you consider il worth a siauia or two J 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1794. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I return you the plates, with which I am highly 
pleased ; I would humbly propose instead of the youu- 
ker k.nitting stockings, to put a stock and horn into 
bis h^.nds. A friend of mine, who is posiJively the 
ablest judge on the subject I havt ever met with, and 
thougl) an unknown, is yet a superior artist with the 
Bu: in, is quite charmed with -Allan's manner. 1 got 
him a peep at the tiei h S'lepherrl ; and he pronoun- 
ces r.Uan a most original artist of great excellence. 

For my part. 1 look on Mr. Allan's chusing my fa- 
Torite poem for his subject, to be one of the highest 
complinteats I have ever received. 

I am quite vexed at Fleyel's being cooped up if 
France, as it will put an entire stop to our work. Now, 
and for six or seven months, /s/m// fie 7i(i e i?j «<mr. 
OS you shall see by and by. I got an air, pretty enough, 
ei'uiposed by Lady Klizabelh Heron, of Heron, which 
she calls The Brnilcs of Cree. ( "ree is a beautiful ro- 
inautic stream ; and as her Ladyship is a particular 
friend of mine, I have written the foUowMig song to it. 

BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower ; 
AH uaderneatb the birchen shade 

<SeePo«/M,p.93. 



No. Lll. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1794. 
1( thfere no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your work to 
be at a dead stop until the allies set our modern Or- 
pheus at liberty from the savage thraldom of demo- 
cratx discords ? Alas the day ! and wo is me I 'i hat 

* A letter lo .Mr. Cunniiighan\, No. CL. of the Ge- 
U«ral t u^Tespaudeuce, 



I ausjiicious period' pregnant with the h-ippineu <^ isW 
I lions.' — '«•«•• 

I have presented a copy of your songs to the daagh 
ter of a much-valued :^ud much huu(i;ied friend o« 
nrine, Mr. Oi ahaui uf Fuitry. 1 wrote on the blauk 
side of the title-page the fuliowhig address to tlisyouiiC 
lady. 

Here where the Scottish muse immortal M»e» 
In sacred straius and tuneful uunihers joia'c), 

See fotiTi^, p. 98 



No. LIll. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS 

Edinburgh, Wih. August. 1794 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I owe you an rpology for having so long delayed tc 
acknowledge the favour of your last. I fear it will be 
as yuusay, 1 shall have no inure songs from level tiU 
i ranee and we are friends, but iievcitlieless, lam 
very desirous to be prepaietl willi the poetry and a* 
the seasou approach, s in which Vuiu' muse of < ulia 
visits you, 1 trust i ithall as loru'ici ly, be Ireiiueiilly 
graiitied with the resuii uf your auioious and lendm 
interviews 1 



MR. BURNS TO MH. THO.MSON. 

30«A Aaxui:. 1794. 
The last evening, aa 1 was straying out, and think* 
ing of, O'e;- ilw. nilU and inr i.wuy, I spun ihe follow" 
ing stanzas for ii ; but whether my spmuing will de 
serve lo be laiil up in store, likr the precious ihrend ol 
the silk-worm, or brushed to the devil, like ilie vile 
manufacture of the spider. 1 leave my dear sir. to your 
usual c.tndid criticism. 1 was pleased with several 
liiieri in its til si : but 1 own that uuw it appears rather 
a flimsy business. 

This is jusl a hasty sketch, until I see whether it b« 
worth a cntique. .> e h.tve many Siulor souga, but na 
far as 1 at present recollect, they are mostly the etfu- 
siuiis uf the jovial s^iilur, nut the wailuigs uf his luve- 
lorn mislre»s. i inusi liere make one sweet exceptiua 
— Sweti yi/inie Jiac Uw iica-b,.aaica/ie. Now for Ui3 
song. 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

How can my poor lieart be glad. 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 

See Poems, p. 94. 

I give you leave to abuse this song, but doitiuth* 
s"inl of L:hristiau meekness. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS 

Edinburgh, 16(/t September, 1794. 
MY DEAR SIR, •» 

You have anticipated my opinion of On the sets ana 
far awa'/ ; 1 do not lhi>ik il one of your very happ> 
produclions, though it certainly contains stanzas tb«t 
are worthy of all acceptation. 

The second is the least lo my liking particularly 
" Eulieis. spare my only joy !" ( oufound the bulletsi 
k might perhaps be objecied to the third verse, " X 
the starless miilnight hour " that il has too muchgraa- 
deur of imagery, and thai greater simplicity of thought 

• A portion of this letter has been left out for '•*- 
sous that wili easily be imagined 



LETTERS. 



139 



Would have better suited the character of a sailor's 
•weeltieart. 'i he tune, it must Ije remembered, is of the 
brisk, cheerful kind. Upon the wliole, therefore, in my 
humble ouinion, ilie son^ would be better adamed to 
the iiiiie, if it consisted only of the firs', aud last 
»er»eB witi. the choruses. 



No. LVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1794. 
[ shall withdraw my, O^er the seas and far away, al« 
togetlier: it is unequal, and unworthy tlie work. 
iMdking a poem is like begetting a son : you cannot 
know wliellier you have a wise man or a fool, until 
Vou produce him to the world to try him. 

For that reason 1 send you the offspring of my brain, 
ahor i i7is ar.d all ; and, as such, pray look over them, 
and forgive them, and burn" them, i am flattered at 
your adopting CVt' t/ieyowes to the knotven, as it was 
owing to me that ever it saw the light. About seven 
years ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little 
fellow of a clergyman, a Mr.L lunie, who sung it charm- 
ingly ; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took it down 
Irora his singing. When I gave it to Johnson, I added 
some stanzas to the song and mended otheis. but still 
it will not do for you. In a solitary stroll which I took 
to-day, I tried my hand on a lev/ pastoral lines, follow- 
ing; up the idea of the chorus, lifhich 1 would preserve, 
here it is, with all its crudities and imperfections on 
its head. 

CHORUS. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' thein where the /leather grows. 

See Poems, p. 94. 

shall give you my opinion of your other newly 
kdopied songs my first aciibblingfit. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON. 

September, 1794. 
Do you know a blackguard Irish song called Onagh's 
Water-fall ? The air is charming, and I have often re- 
gretted the want of decent verses to it. H is too much 
at least for my humble rustic muse, (o expect that 
every effort of hers shall have merit ; still I think that 
it is better to have mediocre verses to <. favourite air, 
than none at all. Ob this principle 1 have all along 
proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum: and as that 
publication is at its last volume. I intend the following 
song to the air above-mentioned for that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be pleas- 
ed to have verses to it that you can sing before ladies. 

SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 
Her eye-brows of a darker hue, 

See Poems, p. 94. 

Not to compare small things with great, my taste iu 
music is like the mighty Frederick of Prussia's taste in 
painting ; we are told that he frequently admired what 
the cninoisseurs decried, aud always without any hy- 
pocrisy confessed his admiration. I am sensible thai my 
lastt in music must be inelegant and vulgar, because 

* This Virgiliau order of the poet should, I think, 
be disobeyed with respect to the song in question, the 
Second stanza excepted. Note by Mr. Thomson. 

Doctors differ. The objection to the second stanza 
do^s. not strike the Editor. £. 



people of undisputed and cultivated taste can Snd n» 

merit in my favourite tunes, still, because I sra 
cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny 
myself that pleasure ? Many of our strathspeys, 
ancient and modern, give me most exquisite en- 
joyment, where you and otiier judges would probably 
be showing disgust. For instance. I am jusi .- — mak- 
ing verses for Kuthiemurckie's Han', an air which putt 
me in raptures ; and, in fact, unless I be pleased Viriih 
the tune, 1 never can make verses to it. Here I have 
(. larke on my side who is a judge that I will pit against 
any of you. Kolhiemuichie, he says, is an air hotii 
original and beautifid i and on his recommendation I 
have taken the first part of the tune for a chorus, and 
the fourth or last part for the song. I am b'lt two 
stanzas deep in the work, and possibly you may ihinu, 
and justly, that the poetry is as little worth your al« 
tention as the music' 

I'have begun anew, Let mein this ae mght. Do you 
think that we ought to retain the old chorus 7 I 
think we must retain both the old chorus and the 
first stanza of the old song. 1 do not altogether like 
the third line of the first stanza, but cannot alter it to 
please myself. I am just three stanzas deep in it. 
Would you have the de'ioi.menl to be successful or 
otherwise 1 Should she '• let him in," or not ? 

Did you not once propose The Sow's Tail to Geor- 
die, as an air for your work? I am qviite dirarlerl 
with it ; but I acknowledge that is no mark of its real 
excellence. I once set about verses for it, which 1 
meant to be in the alternate way of a lover and his 
mistress chanting together. 1 have not the pleasure 
of knowing Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and 
yours I am afraid is rather burlesque for sentiment, 
else I had meant to have made you the hero aud 
heroine of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, which 1 
wrote the other day on a lovely young girPs recovery 
from a fever? Doctor Maxwell was the physician 
who seemingly saved her from the gtave j and to him 
I address the following. 

TO DR. MAXWELL, 

On Miss Jessy Staig's Recovery, 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave. 

That merit I deny : 
Yju save fair Jessy from the grave ?— 

An angel could not die 

God grant you patience with this stupid epistle I 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

I perceive the sprightly muse is now attendant upor 
her favourite poet, whose wood-notes wild are becom- 
ing as enchanting as ever. She says she lu'es me best 
of a', is one of the pleasanlest table-songs I have seeii, 
and henceforth shall be mine when the so.ig is going 
round. I'll give Cunningham a copy ; he can more 
powerfully proclaim its merit. I am far from under- 
valuing yoilr taste for the strathspey music ; on the 
contrary, 1 think it highly animating and agreeable, 
and that some of the strathspeys, when graced with 
such verses as yours, will make very pleasing songs 
in the same way that rough Chri.stians are te.-npered 
and softened by lovely woman; without whom, yoa 
know, they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the Sow's Tail, particularly 
as your proposed verses to it are so extremely promis- 
ing. Geordie, as yoi' observe, is. a name oi/y tit lor 
burlesque coinposit ion Mrs. Thompson's nan .! • '. -''h- 
erine) is not at all poetical. Retain Jeaiiie tntrelure, 
and make the other Jamie, or any other that sound* 
agreeably. 

* In the original, follow here two stanzas of a song, 
besinuing ' Lassie, wi' the lint-white locks." 



140 



LETTERS. 



Vour Cn' 'fie ewea Ig a precious little mOTceau. In- 
deed, I am perlcctiy astonished and charmed with the 
endless variety of your fancy. Here let me ask you, 
whether yon never seriously turned your thoughts 
upon dramatic writing? 'liial is a field worth/ of 
vonr genius, in which' it might shine forth in all its 
splendor. One or two successful pieces upon the 
London stage would make your fortune. 'J'he rage at 
present is for musical dramas : few or none of those 
Which have appeared since the Duenna. |)0ssesses 
touch poetical merit : there is little in the conduct of 
the faille, or in the dialogue, to interest the audience. 
They are chiefly vehicles for music and pageantry. I 
itiirit you might ])roduce a comic opera in three acts, 
Which would live hy the poetry, at the same lime that 
it would be proper to take every assistance from her 
luneful sister. L art of the songs, of course, would be 
to our favourite .Scottish airs . the rest might be left 
to tlie London composer — s>tora(;e for Drury-lane, or 
Shield for Covent Garden : both of them veiy able stid 
popular musicians. 1 believe that interest and man- 
ffiuvring are often necessary to liave a drama brought 
on ; so ii may he with the namby pamby tribe of 
flowery scribblers ; but were you to address Mr. 
Sheridan himself by letter, and send him a dramatic 
piece. 1 am persuaded he would, for the honour of 
genius, give it a fair and candid trial. Kxcuse 
Uir obtruding these biuts upon your cousideraliou.* 



composed. In selecting the melodies for -ny iwn Mt 

lection, I have been as much guided by the hviiig at 
by the dead. Where these diflfered, 1 preferred the 
sets that appeared to me the most simple and beanli 
l\il, and the most generally approved ; and without 
meaning any compliment to my own capabiiiiy of 
chousing, or speaking of the pains I have taken, I 
flatter myself that my sets will be found equally tVeeti 
from vulgar errors on the one hand, and affected 
graces ou'iae oiher. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



X^th October, 1794. 



No. LIX. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Uth October, 1794. 

The last eight days have been devoted to the re-ex 
amination of the .Scottish collections. I have read 
and sung and fiddled, and considered, til! I am half 
blinit and wholly stupid. The few airs I have added 
are enclosed. 

Peter Phidar has at length sent me all the songs I 
enpected from him, which are in general elegant and 
beautd'ul. Have you heard of a London collection of 
Scottish airs and songs, just published by Mr. llitson, 
an Kiigiishmen .' 1 shall send you a copy. His intro- 
ductory essay on the subject is curious and evinces 
great reading and research, but does not decide the 
question as to the origin of our melodies : though he 
shows clearly that Mr. I'yller, in his ingenious disser- 
tation, has adduced no sort of proof of the I ypothesis 
he wished to establish : and that his classif cation of 
the airs according to the eras, when they were com- 
posed, is mere fancy and conjecture. t)n John 1 inker- 
ton. Ksq. he has no mercy ; but consigns him to dam- 
nation ! He snarls at my publication, on the score of 
i indar being eiigagc<l to write some songs for it ; uii- 
caiididly and unjustly leaving it to be inferred, that 
.he songs of fccoltishwrileis had been sent a packing 
to make room for tetersl i.>f yon he speaks with 
»cnie respect, but gives you a passing hit or two, for 
daring to dress up a little, some old foolish songs for 
the Museum. His sets of the s-cottish airs, are taken, 
he says, from the oldest collections and best authori- 
ties : many of their., however, have such a strange as- 
jject, and "are so uiilike the sets which are sung by 
every person of taste, old or young, in town or coun- 
try, that we can scarcely recognize tlie features of our 
favourites. fJy going to the oldest collections of our 
music, it does not follow that we find the melodies in 
their original state. 1 hese melodies had been pre- 
•erved, we know not how long, by oral commnnica- 
tioQ, before being collected and printed ; and as difler- 
ent persons sing the same air very diifeienlly, accord- 
ing to their accurate or confused recollections of it, so 
even supposing tlie first collectors lo have possessed 
the industry, the taste and discernment to choose the 
best they could hear, (which is far frora certain,) still 
it must evidently be a chance, whether the collections 
exhibit any of the melodies in the state they were first 

* Our bard had before received the same advice, 
»nd certainly took it so fiir into coiisideratiou as to 
bave cost about for a subject. £1. 



MY DEAR FRIEND, 

By this morning's post 1 have your list, and, in gene- 
ral,! highly approve of it. I shall, at more leisure give 
you a critique on the whole. Clarke goes to your own 
town by to-day's fly. and I wish you would call on him 
and take his opinion in general : you know his taste is 
a standard. He will return here again in a week or 
twoi. so [ilease do not miss asking for him. One thing 
I hope he will do, persuade you to adopt my favourite 
Crazir-bun-wool,\\\ your selection it is as great a 
favourite of his as of mine. The lady on whom It was 
ma'le. is" one of the finest women in Scotland ; and io 
fact (en'ren^iis) is in a manner lo me, what .^terne's 
Kliza was to him — a mistress or friend, or what you 
will in the guileless simplicity of 1 latonic love. (Now 
don't put any of your squinting constructions on this, 
or have any clish-maclaver about it among our ac- 
quaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend 
you are indebted for many of your be.<;t songs of mine, 
bo yon think that the sober gin-horse rontiiie of exist- 
ence, could inspire a man with life, and love, and 
joy — couM fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with 
pathos, equal to the genius of your book ? No 1 no ! — 
Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in sorts ; 
to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs; do 
you imagine that I fast and pray for the celestial ema- 
nation? Tom ait cnn'ratiel 1 have a glorious recipe ; 
the very one that for his own use was invented hy the 
divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the 
flocks of .Admetus. I put myself in a re-rimen of ad- 
miring a fine woman ; and in proportion to the adora- 
hility of her charms, in the proportion yon are delight- 
ed with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the 
godhead of Parnassus ; and the witchery of her smile, 
the divinity of Helicon ! 

To descend to business ; if y»)n like my idea of Wlien 
shecnm /)»« s/ie 6o66i(. the following stanzas of mine, 
altered a little from what they were formerly when set 
to another air, may perhaps do instead of worse stan- 
zas. 

S.A.\V YE MY PHELY. 

O, saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
O, saw ye ray dear, my Phely 7 

.See Poems, p. 95. 

Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The Posit 
(in the Museum) is my composition , the air was taken 
down from Mrs. iiurn's voice." It is well known in 
the West Country, bui the old words are trash. By 
the by. take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you 
do not think it is the original from which lionln 'im'le 
is composed, 'lire second part in pariicular, fur the 
first two or three bars, is exactly the old air. Stia h- 
cUien'n Lnmni, is mine: the music is by our right 
trusty and deservedly well-beloved .Allan .Masterlon. 
Oun jcIu- Head is iml mine; I would give ten puiindt 
it were. It appeared first iu the iidinburgh iierald ; 

• The Posie will be found in the Poems, p. 109. Thit, 
and the other poems of which he speaks, had appeared 
iu Johnson's Museum, and Mr.T. had inquireJ wbeUj* 
er tiiey wera our bard's / 



LETTERS. 



141 



■ltd came to the editor of thiit paper with the Newcas- 
tle pusi-inark ou it.' IV/iUle j'tT tke lave o't ia mine: 
tiie rnnsic is s&icj to he by .lohii Bruce, a celebrated 
»)ohii-piayer ill Uunifrie», ahr>ul t'lie beginning of tliii 
5«nliiry. Thia I Know, Br"ce, wlio was an honetit 
man, though a reiKviid Higlniiii<lnian.coi;sianlly claim- 
ed it ; and by all the oldest musical people here, U be- 
lieved, to be the author olit. 

Andrew and his citlty Gun. The son? to which this 
Is set in the Museum is mine, and was composed ou 
Miss lCii))heniia Murray, ot linlrose, commonly and 
deservedly called the Flower of btrathmore. 

Hnw lon^ ani dreay is the nisht ! I met with some 
4'jch words ill a coliei-.lion of snugs somewhere, which 
i altered and enlarged ; and to please yon, and to suit 
your favourite air, 1 have taketi a stride oi two across 
my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will fiud 
ou the other page. 

iSONG, 

How long and dreary is the night, 
When I am frae my dearie ! 

See Poems, p. 93. 

Tell me how you like this. T differ from your idea 
of the expressions of ihetuno. There is, to me a great 
deal of tenderness in it. \'ou cannot, in my opinion, 
dispense with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of 
ny acquaintance, a noted pertormer, plays and sings 
althe same time so charmingly, that 1 shall never bear 
to see any of her songs sent iiito the world, as naked 
as Mr. ,What-d'ye-call-um has done in his London 
collection. ^ 

These English songs gravel me to death. I have 
not that command of the language that 1 have of my 
native tongue. 1 have been at Duncan Gray, to dress 
it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For 
instance ; 

* The reader will he curious To see this poem, so 
highly praised by Burns. Here it is. 

Keen blawa the wind o'er Donocht-Head,(l) 

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale ; 
The Gaber-luiizie lirls my sneck, ^ 

And shivering tells his waefu' tale ; 
" Cauld is the night, O let me in. 

And dinna let your minstrel fa' ; 
And dinna let his winding sheet, 

Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. 

" Fu'rf ninety wintets hae I seen. 

And piped where gor-cocks whirring flew ; 
And moiiy a day I've danced, I ween, 

To lilts which from my drone I hlew.'» 
My Eppie waked and soon she cried, 

' Get up, g'.iidman, and let liiin in; 
For weel ye keen the winter night 

Was short when he began his din.' 

My Epple's voice O wow it's sweet, 

Even Iho' she oan?- and scaulds a wee ; 
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, 

O, haith, it's doubly dear to me ; 
Come in. auld carl. Til steer my fire, 

I'll raake it bleeze a bonnie flame ; 
Your bluid is thin, ye've tint the gate, 

\ e should nae stray so far fruc hame. 

" Nae hame have I," the miuBtrel said, 
'' Sad parly-strife o'erturn a my ha' ; 

And weeping at the eve of life, 
1 wandered thro' a wreath o' snaw." 



Let not woman e'er complain 
Ot inconstancy in love ; 

^ee Pnents, p. 95. 



Since the above. T have been out 
ing a dinner with a friend, wheia 
whom 1 mentioned in the secoiic 
and-ends of a letter. As usual 1 



the country, tak- 
net wall ili'f ia.iy 
age Ml this odils- 
l i/t o son ' ; and 



This affecting poem is apparently incomplete, 
aiiviior need not be ashamed to own iuin«elf. 
*urLn/ ot Burns, or of Macniel. E. 

'I) A mouotaiu in the North. 
1 Mr. Rltson. 



The 
It is 



returning home I composed the lollowing : 
THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS 
MISTRESS. 

Sleep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest creature ; 
Rosyjnorn now lifts his eye,-t 

See Poems, p. Z5 

If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, 
I will vamp up the old song, and make it English 
enough to be understood. 

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East India air, 
which you would swear was a .Scottish one. 1 k.iow 
the authenticity of it, as the gentleman who brought it 
over, is a particular ac^guaintance of mine. Do pre- 
serve me the copy I send you. as it is the only one I 
ave. Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend putting 
into the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses » 
iteiid tor it. 

THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 
The woods rejoio'd the day. 

See Poems, p. 96. 

I would be obliged to you if you would procure me 
sight of Ritsons collection of English songs, which 
you mention in your letter. I will thank you for ano- 
"ther iurormation, and that as speedily as you please: 
whether this miserable drawling hotchpotch epistle 
has not completely tired you of my correspondence i 



No. LXI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, ^Ih October, 1794. 
I am sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine poet 
can no more exist without his misiiess than his meat. 
1 wish I knew the adorable she whose hnghl eyes and 
witching smiles have so ol'ien enraptured the Scottish 
bard ! that 1 might drink her sweet health when the 
toast is going round. Cra^iL-barn-uijU'l, must cer- 
tainly be adopted into my family, since .ike is the ob- 
ject of the song; but in the name of decency I must 
beg a new cln^us-verse from you. O lu ba li/in^b'- 
yuni Ihee, deaiie,\s perhaps a consnmmatiou Ic be 
wished, but will not do for singing in the comiiany of 
ladies. The songs in your last will do you lasting credit, 

• From the fifth to the eleventh line of this song 
stood originally thus : 

Now to the stieaming fountain, 
Or up the heathy mountain, 
The hart. hind, and roe, freely wildly-wanton stray ; 
In twining har.el bowers 
His lay the linnet pours, ^ 

The lav'rock, &c, 

t The last eight Unes stood originally thas : 

When fare my Chloris parted, 

Sad, cheerless broken-hearted. (»ky 

The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'erd** mj 

But when she charms my sight, 

In pride of beauty's liaht ; 

When thrc' my very heart 

Tier blooming glories ilarl. 
Tis then, 'tis then, I wake to life, and Joy. « 



142 



LETTERS. 



and suit the resr-CiitlTe airs charmfngly. 1 am per- 
fucliy of your opinion with respect, to the aitdilional 
airs. 'I'lie idea of sending them into the world nalted 
as they were born was ungenerous. They must all 
be cliilhed and made decent by our friena Clarke. 

1 find I am an'.icipated by the friendly Cunningham 
in senciiiig you Ritsou's Scoliish collection, l ermit 
nie. therefore, to present yon with his English collec- 
tion, whicli you will receive by the coach. I do not 
find his historical essay on Scottish song interesting, 
your anecdotes and miscellaneous remarks will. I am 
sure, be much more so. .Allan has just sketched a 
charming design from Maggie Lauder. lihe is dan- 
cing with such spirit as to electrify the piper, who 
seems almost dancing too, while he is plaj'ing with the 
most exquisite glee. 1 ain much inclined to get a 
small copy, and to have it engraved in the style of 
Ritsou's priiil^. 

P. S. Pray what do your anecdotes say concerning 
Maggie Lauder.' was she a real personage, and of 
what rank 1 You would surely sjjier for her if you 
ta'd at Anstruther town. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November, 1794. 
Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your present. 
It is a book of the utmost importance tome. I have 
yesterday begun my anecdotes. &c. for your work. I 
intend ilrawing it up in the form of a letter to you. 
which will save me from the tedious, dull business of 
systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all 1 have to say 
consists of unconnecteil remarks, anecdotes, scraps of 
old songs. &c. it would be injpossible to give the work 
a beginning, a middle, or an end, which the critics in- 
sist to be absolutely necessary in a work.' In my last 
I told you my ol)jections to the song you had selected 
for My lodginz is on ike aid ground. On my visit the 
other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name 
of the lovely goddess of my inspiration) she suggested 
an idea, which I, in my return from the visit, wrought 
luto the following smig. 

' My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair ; 

See Poems, p. 93. 

How do you like the simplicity and tenderness nf 
this pusioral ? 1 think it pretty well. 

I like your entering so candidly and so kindly into 
the story of Ma c'lere Amie. 1 assure you I was never 
mure in earnest in my life, than in the account of that 
affair which I sent you in my lust. Conjugal love is a 
passion which 1 deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, 
somehow, it does not make such a tig«re in poesy as 
that other species of the passion, 

" Where love is liberty, and nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which 
the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inex- 
pressibly sweet ; while the last has powers equal to all 
the inteileclual modulations of the human soul. Still 
I am a very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. — 
The welfare and happiness of the beloved object is the 
first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul ; 
and whatever pleasures 1 might wish for, or whatever 
might be the raptures they would give me, yet, if they 
Interfere with that first principal, it is having these 
pleasures at a dishonest price; and justice forbids, 
and generosity disdains the purchase 1 * * 

Despairing of my own powers to give you variety 
■aougb in English songs, I have been turning over old 

• Tt does not appear whether Burns completed these 
anecdotes, &c. Something of the kind (probably the 
rude drauglns) was fotmd amonsst his papers and 
appears in Appendix No II. .Note B. 



collections, to pick out songs, of which tho iiieMiire M 
something similar to what 1 want , and, with a iittis 
alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, 
to give you them for your work. V\ here the song* have 
t.ithfrln been but little noticed, nor have ever been set 
to music, 1 think the shil'l a fair one. A sung, which, 
under the same first verse, you will find in itamsay'a 
Tea-Table -Miscellany, I have cut down for an i-.-nglish 
dress to your Daiiuie Davie, as follows: 

SONG. 

Altered, from an old English one. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay, 

See Poems, p. 96. 

You may think meanly of this, but take a look at th« 
bombast original, and you will be surprised that I have 
made so much of it. 1 have finished my song to Ho- 
thiemurckit's Rotit ; and you have Clarke to consult a* 
to the set of the air for singing. 

LASSIE Wl' THE LINT-WHiTE LOCKS.* 



Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 

See Poems, p. 96. 

This piece has at least the merit of being a regular 
pastoral: the vernal morn, ihe summer noon, the au- 
tumnal evening and the winter night, are regularly 

■ounded. if you like it, well: if not, I will hiserl it in 

he Museum. 

I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, sc 
tender an air, as />/ :tih the wars, to the foolish old 
verses. \o\\ talk of the silliness of Siw ye myfailier 7 

y heavens! the odds is gold to brass ! besides, the old 
song though now pretty well modernized into the 
Scottish language, is originally, and in the early edi- 
tions, a bungling low imitation of the Scottish manner, 
that genius 'Tom l)'l rfey: so has no pretensions to 
be a ."Scottish production. ' 'There is a pretty English 
song by .■^heridau, in the I'/U-innrt, to this air, which is 
out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins, 

When sable night each drooping plant restoring." 

The air, if I understand the expression of it proneriy, 

is the very native language of simplicity, tenderness 

and love. I have again gone over my song to the tuiio 

follows.' 



greens 



Now for my English song to Nanq/'s to the 
wood, ifC. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows 
Around Eliza's dwelling! 

See Poems, p. 97. 

There is an air, The rnlrdoninn ffunt's D"V<;:ht, to 
which 1 wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. 

Ye bnnks nni brnes o' b^nni>> Doi>n ; this air, I 

think, might find o place among your hundred, as I, en: 

ysof his knights. Do you know the history of the 

* In some of the MSS. the last stanza of this song 
runs thus : 

And should the howhng winl'ry blast 
Disturb my lassie's midnisht rest, 
I'll fauld thee to my faithfn' breast, 
And comfort thee my dearie O. 

t See the song in its first and best dress in pap* 5t9, 
Our bard remarks upon it, " 1 could easily throw t>>'» 
into an English mould : but, to rny taste, in the simjile 
and the tender of the pastoral soni<, n sprinirliiig of \.t/t 
old .'^;cotti8h has an inimitable effect." E 



LETTERS. 



in 



. mSf": It h :artofls enwugh. A good many years ago. 
Mr. .'amus Miller, writer in your good town, a gentle- 
mat< wliom py'isibly yuu know, was in company with 
our ti ien«l Clarke ; and talking of >cotiish music, Mil- 
ler expressed an ardent ambition to be able lo compose 
»^^,o^.sair. M v. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told 
him to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord and 
preserve some kind of rhythm and lie would infsllilily 
toinpose a f-cots air. i ertuin it is that, in a few days, 
Mr. Miller prodiiced the tudimeiils of an air, which 
Mr. f larke with some touches and correcliiMis, fashion- 
ed into the tune in tjneslion. Ritsou, you know, has 
the 8«me story ot" the liL':ck- keys ; but this account 
which I have just given you, Mr, Clarke informed me 
of several years ago. Now to si(ow you how ciifficidt 
it is to trace the origin of our airs, i have heard it re- 
peatedly asserted that this was an Irish air ; nay, I 
met with an Irish gentie'.nan wlio affirmed he ha<l 
heard it in Iriland among the old women while, on 
the other hand, a Cimiitess iufonned me, that the fii-st 
person who introduced the air into tins country was a 
baronet's lady of her acquaiuiaMCe, who took down 
the notes from an itinerant pipei- in the Isle of Man. 
How difficult then to ascertain the truth respecting our 
poesy and music ! I, myself have lately seen a couple 
of ballads sung through the streets of I nn.ifries with 
my name at the head of thrini as the author, though it 
was the first time that i had ever seen them. 

I thank you for admitting Crn^ie-bum-wood ; and 
I snail take care to furnish you with a new chonis. In 
fact the chonts was not my work, but a part of some 
old verses to the air. If . can catch myself in a more 
than ordinary propitious moment, I shall write a new 
' laztt-baiK-wood altogether. My heart is much iu 
tOe theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request ; 
'tis dunning your generosity ; but in a moment, when 
I had forgotten whether I was rich or poor, I promised 
Chioris a copy of your songs. It wrings my honest 
pride to write you this : but an ungracious request is 
joubly so by a tedious apology. To make you some 
umends, as soon as 1 have extracted the necessary 
infiirmaliou out of them, I will return you liitson's 
Tolumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so 
listiuguisiied a figure in your collection and I am not 
a little proud that 1 have it in my power to please her 
(0 much, l.ucky it is for your patience that my paper 
is done for when I am iu a scribbling humour 1 know 
not wiieu to give over. 



from your partiality for ..lis colour else w« differ 
about it ; for I should scarcely cono^ive a woman 
to be a beauty, on reading that she had lint-whiie 
locks. 

Farewell thou t'ream that winding fintes, I think 
excellent, but it is much too serious to come after 
Naiici/ ; at least it would seem an incongruity to pro- 
vide the same air with merry f-coltish and melancholy 
Knalish verses ! The more that the two sets of verse* 
resemfjle each other in their general character, the bel- 
ter. Those you have maau-factured for Dniny Druie 
will answer charmingly. 1 am happy to find yon have 
begun your anecdotes I I care not how long they be, 
for it is impossible that any thing from youi pen can 
be tedious. Let me beseech you not to use ceremony 
in lelliug me when yo'i wish to present any of your 
friends with the songs : mc ucjv.i. <-<iirier will bring you 
three copies, and you are as welcome lo twenty as to 
a piucli of snuff. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSOK. 

\ath November. 17W. 
You see, my ilear Pir, v/hat a punctual correspT»n- 
dent I am ; though indeed you may thank yourself for 
the ■edium of my lettei-s, as you have so flattered me 
on my horsemanship with my favourite hobby, and 
praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I ana 
scarcely ever off his back. For instance, this morning, 
though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before break- 
fast I finished my duet which yuu were pleased to 
praise so much. Whether I have uniformly succeed- 
ed, I will not say ; but here it is for you, though it is 
not ail hour old. 



MR. THOiMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

13//1 November, 1794. 
MY GOOD SIR, 

Since receiving your last, I have had another inter- 
view with Mr. ^larke, and a long consultation. He 
tfiinkji the Coledun nn inim is more Lacchanalian 
tfaau amorous in its nature, and recommends it to you 
to match the air acctjrdingly. i ray did it ever occur 
to you how peculiarly well the Srcot'iisli airs are aditpt- 
ed lor verses in the form of a dialogue ? 'I he first part 
df the air is generally low. and suited for a man's 
yoice, and the second part in many instances cannot 
1e sung, at concert pitch, but by a female voice. A 
«ong thus performed makes an agreeab.e yariety, but 
few of ours are written iu this form: i wish you would 
•Jiink of it ii. some of those that remain. 'I he only one 
01° the kind you have sent me is admirable, aud will 
De a universal favourite. 

Your verses for Rothiemurchie are to sweetly pas- 
toral, and yoiyr serenade to ( hloris, for Diel lak the 
tears, so passionately tender, that 1 have sung myself 
into raptures with them. Your song (or My lodging 
is on diecjLd ^roi-nl, is likewise a diamond of the 
ftr»t water ; and 1 am quite clazzled and delighted by 
(. Some of yu'ir Ctiloriseii 1 suppose have flaxen hair, 



HK. 

O PhiUy, happy be that day 

When roving through the gather'd hay, 

See Poems, p. 97. 

Tell me honestly how you like it ; and point out 
whatever you think faulty. 

am much pleased with your idea of singing our 
gs in alternate stanzas, and regret that you did not 
hint it to me sooner. In those that remain, I shall 
have it in my eye. 1 remember your objections to the 
name i hillv ; but it is the common abbreviation o, 
I Philiis. bally, the only other name that suits, has lo 
! my ear a vulgarity about it, which unfits it for any 
thing except burlesque. The legion of .Scottish poet- 
asters of the day, whom your brother editor, Mr. Rit> 
sou, ranks with me as my coevals, have always mis 
taken vulgarity for Simplicity ; whereas, simplicity is 
as much < loiinee from vulgarity on the one hand, .18 
from affected point and puerile conceit on ihe other. 

1 agree ^^^th you as to the air, Crazte-bu.-rt-wood, 
that a chorus would in some degree spoil the effect ; 
and shall certainly have none in my projected song to 
it. It is not however a case in point with Boihinmn- 
ci'iie ; there, as iu lioi/'s Hife of Aidinnl'.c'', a chorus 
goes, to my taste, well enough. As lo the chorus gonig 
first, that is the case with Roy's Hije, as well as 
Ko:hiemurch:e. In fact, in the first part of both tunes, 
the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, and on tliat 
irregularity depends so much of their beauty, that we 
must e'en lake them with all their wildness, and 
humour the verses accordingly. Leaving out the starl- 
ing note, in both times.has, i ihiuk, an effect that oo 
regularity could counterbalance the wau. of. 



Try 



O Roy's Wife of Aldivaloch. 
O Lassie wi' the lint-while luck* 



csnd compare with. 



Roy's Wife of .Aldivaloch. 
Lasaie wi' the luit- white lodn. 



]44 



LETTERS. 



Doe* not the tameness of the prefixed syllable strike 
yon ? Ill the last case, with the true furor of genius, 
you strike at once into the wild originality of the air : 
whereas in ihe first insipid method, it is like the gra- 
ting screw of the pins before the riddle is brouglii into 
tune. This is my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg pardon 
of the cognoscenti. 

The Caledonian Hunt is so charming that it would 
make any subject in a song go down . but pathos is 
certainly its native tongue, ftcoitish Bacchanalians 
we certainly want, though the few we have are excel- 
lent. For instance, T '■Ui/t Ilnme, is, for wit and 
humour an unparalleled composition: and Anrlieic 
and his cutty f-'un, is the work of a master. By the 
way, are you not quite vexed to think that those men 
of genius, for such they certainly were, who composed 
our fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown 1 It has 
eiven me maiiy a heart-ache. Aprojjus to Hacchana- 
Ban songs in Scottish ; I composed one yesterday, for 
an air 1 like much — Lumps a' Pudding. 

Contented wi' little, and canty wi' mair. 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 

Sae Poems, p. 97. 

If you do not relish this ah-, 1 will send it to 
Johnson. 

Since yesterday's penmanship, 1 have framed a 
couple of Kuglisli stanzas, by way of an Kngliih song 
to Royls Wift. You will allow me that in tliis in- 
■tance, my Knglish corresponds in sentiment with the 
Scottish. 

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY 1 

Chorus. 

Canst thou leave me thul, my Kaly 7 
Cansl Ihou leave me tfius, my Kaly ?' 

See Poems, p. 97. 

* To this address, in the character of a forsaken 
lover,!, reply was found on the part of the lady, among 
the MSS. of our bard, evidently in a female hand-wri- 
ting ; which is doubtless that referred to in p. 134, let- 
ter No. XLII. Note. The temptation to give it to the 
public is irresistible ; and if, in so doing, offence should 
te given to the fair authoress, the beauty of her verses 
taubl plead our excuse. 

Tunc— 'Roys Wife.' 

Chorus. 

Slay, my Willie — yet believe me, i 

Stay, my Willie — yel believe me, 

For, all! thou know'st naevei y pain 

Wad wring my bosom shouldsl Oioti leave me. 

Tell me that thou yet art true, 

.And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven. 

And when this heart proves fause to thee, 
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 
Slay my Willie, i(c. 

But to think 1 was betray'd , 

'I'hat falsehood e'er our loves sliould simder ! 
To lake the flow'ret to my breast. 

And find the guilefu' serpent under 1 
Slay my Will.e, i;c. 

Co lid 1 nope tboud'st ne'er deceive. 
Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em, 

I'd slight, nor seek in otlier spheres 
Tiiat heaven I'd find within thy bosom. 
iJ ay My W,Uie, S(c. 

It may amusi the reader to be told, that on this oc- 
Muion the gentleman and the lady have exchanged the i 
jf their respective countries. The Scottish ' 



] Well ! I think this, to be d.one In twn or three l«n»t 
across my room, and wit;: two or iniir! , nches ol liiati 
I Blackguard, is not so ur amiss. S ou .see I am iletar* 
I mined to have my quantum of applause from sume> 
I body. 

Tell ray friend Allan (for I am sure thai wk 'hut 
want the trifling circuj-istance of hein;» know to one nii- 
other. to be the best I"; lends on cartii; that I nnicli sus- 
pect he has, in his | lates, mistaken the figure of the 
stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one : but it is a 
very rude instrument. It is comi]osed of three parts : 
the Slock, which is the hinder thighbone of a slieep, 
such as you see in a mtucon liam ; the horn, which is a 
common Highland cow's horn, cut off at the smaller 
end, until the aperture be large enough to admit the 
stock to be iMished ui)*nrousli the horn until it be held 
by the thicker end of the Ihigh-hone : and lastly, an 
eaten reed exactly cut nnd notched like that which you 
see every shepherd boy have, when the corn stems are 
green and full-grown. ' The reed is not made fast in the 
bone, but is held by the lips, and plays loose in tho 
smaller end of the stock : while the stock', with the horn 
hanging on its larger end, is heltl by the hanils in (-lay- 
ing. The stuck has six or seven veniiges on ihe upper 
sides, and one back venti,>;e, like ihe common flute. 
This of mine was mane by a man from I In- braes ot 
Athole, and is exactly what ihe shepherds wont to u».s 
in that country. 

Howev.er, either it is not quite properly bored in the 
holes, or else we have nut the art of blowinj; it rightly ; 
for we can make little of it. If .Mr. Han chooses I 
will send him a sight "'" mine ; as I louk un myself to 
be a kind of brother-biUsh with him. " Prule in \'af.\» 
is nae sin ;" and I will cay it, that I look on V!r. Allaa 
and .Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real painter* 
of Scottish costume ii. me world. 



No. i.XV 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

28M November, 1794. 
1 acknowledge, my ('■?f>.r Sir, you are not only il«e 
most punctual, but Ih-? most delectable corre»|ion(ieut 
I ever met with. Tr. altemjit flatlering yuu. never 
entered into my head •. 'he iruih is, I h.uk back wiiU 
suri'rise at my impudence, in so frequenity n;bl ling at 
lines and couplets of your incumparable lyrics,' lof 
which, perhaps, if you had served me right, you woidd 
have sent me to the flevil ( n the contrary, howi>er, 
you have all along condescended lo invite my crii.cieio 
with so much couitesy, ihut it ceases to be woiulerlul. 
if I have sometimes given myself the airs of a reviewer. 
Y'our last budget demands unqualified praise : all the 
songs are charming, bu; the duet ia a i:hej' <i' a^tvrti. 
Lumps o' Puddin: shUI certainly make one ot mr 
family dishes ; you havt; cooked it so capitally, thai II 
will piease all palates. Do give us a few more of v,hi» 
cast when you find yourttlf in gooil spirits ; these con- 
vivial songs are more wanted than ihose of the amorout 
kind, of which, we have great choice. Besides, one 
does not often meet with i singer capable of givuip, ib« 
proper effect to the lati,.'!- wliile the former are eB.iilf 
siuig, and acceptable to cvery hotly. I participsi* In 
your regret iliat the authors of some of our best soiien 
are unknown ; it is provoking to every nduiirer of 
genius. 

I mean to h'xve a pictuie painted from your be.auiiful 
ballad, The Soldier's Betunt, to be tngra/ed !«.. »>)<i 
of my frontispierea. Tht t.-it/Sl interesiinK puini of ?ni<« 
appears to me, when sht nint recoanr/es her aiii rt'H* 
Willy, " She gaz'd, she .uiideu'd li.<e a ros^.'' 'l'*-9 
three lines immediately Ij.'i-.wuig are no Oouni more 
impressive on the reader's feelings j but were tba 

bard makei his address in pure Knslish : the repijr ou 
the i)art of the lady, in ihe .Scoitish dialect, ia. if we 
mistake not, by a younu and beautiful EniitiahvOi 
man. E. 



LETTERS. 



145 



pKmter to fli on these, then you'll observe the anima- 
tieit aiici anxiety of lier cumitenance is ;^oiie,atKl he could 
Piily reiiieseiit liei fainting in the soUiier's arms. But 
I submii the matter to you, and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for your accurate des- 
cription of ilie stock and horn and for the very gr.itify- 
in°; complinienl yot\ pay him in considering him worthy 
of staailing in a niche by the side of Burns in the Scoi- 
lisli . anllieon. He has seen the rude instrument you 
describe, so does not want you to send it; but wishes 
to know whether you beUeve it to have ever been 
generally used as a musical pipe by tne Scottish shep- 
herds, and when, and in what purl of the country 
chiefly. 1 doubt much if it was capable of any thing 
but routing and roaring. A friend of mine says, he re- 
members to have heard one in his younger days made 
of wooa instead of your bone, and tnat the sound was 
abominable. 

Do not, I beseech you, return any books. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, n94. 
It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart, to do any 
thing to forward, or add to the value of your book ; and 
as I agree with you that the Jacobite song in the Muse- 
um, to TheTeML never be peace liil Jamie comes liame, 
would not_so well consort with 1 eter 1 indar's excellent 
luve-soug to that air, J have just framed for you the 
following: 

MY NANNIE'S AWA. 
Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, 
Ami L'stens the lambkins that bleat o'er the "braes. 
See Poems, p.m. 

Row does this please you ? As to the point of time 
for the expression, in your proposed p.int from my 
ii'>rlser's Return, it 'must certaiidy be at — " She 
gaz'd." The interesting dubiety and suspense taking 
possession of her coLUitenance, and the gtishing fond- 
ness with a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike 
nje, as things of which a master will make a great deal. 
lu great haste, but in great trutli, yours. 



No. Lxvn 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON. 

January, 1795. 
1 fear for my songs ; however a few may please, yet 
originality is a coy feature in comyiositiou, and in a 
multiplicity of efforts in the same style, disappears al- 
together. For these three thousand years, we poetic 
folks, have been desci-ibing the spring for instarice ; 
and as the spring continues the same, there must soon 
be a sameness in the imagery, &c. of these said rhyming 
folks. 

A great critic, Aikin, on songs, says, that love and 
wine ;' re the exclusive themes for song-writing. The 
following is on neither subject, and consequently is no 
song ; but will he allowed, i think, to be two or threu 
pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into ryhme. 

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 
Is there, for honest poverty. 

That hangs his head and a' that ; 

See Poemt.p.98. 

do not give you tne foregoing song for your book, 
k'lt merely by way of oive la hn^atelle ; for the piece 
ie not really poetry. How will the following do for 
Cmigie-bum-wood ?* 

• Craigie-burn-wood is situated on the banks of tlie 
lt««r Moffat, and about three miles distant from the 



Sweet fa's the ere on Craigie-bnrn, 
And blithe awakes the morrow ; 

See Poema, p. 9S 
Farewell 1 God bless you. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, ZWh January, 1195, 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I thank you heartily for Nannie's awa, as well as for 
Craigie-burn, which I think a very comely jiair. Your 
observation on the difficulty of original writing in 4 
number of efforts, in the same style, strike.^ nie V017 
forcibly: and it has a°ain and again excited my won- 
der to find you continually surmounting this difficulty, 
in the many delightful songs you have sent me Your 
Vive la bagatelle song, For a' that, shall undoubtedly, 
be included in my list. 



No. LXIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1793. 
Here is another trial at your favorite air. 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou wakin, 1 wouhl wit ? 

See Poem*, p. 98. 

HER ANSWER. 

O tell na me o' wind and rain, 
Ujibraid me na wi' cauld disdalo. 

I do not know whether it will lio 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Ecclefechan,lt/iFeb 17S5 
MY DEAR THOMSON, 

You cannot have any idea of the predicament ir 
which I write to you. in the course of my duty as Su 
jiervisor (in which capacity 1 have acted o.'laie" i came 
yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked, little Tillage. 
1 have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have 
impeded my progress ; I have tried to " gae back the 
gait I cam again." but the same obstacle has shut me 
up within insuperable bars. To add lo my misfortune 
since dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, ir. 
sounds that would have insuhed the dying agonies nf a 
sow under the hands of abuti-her, and thinks himself, 
on that very account, exceeding good company. In 
fact, 1 have been in a dilemma, either 10 get drunk, to 
forget these miseries, or to hang myself to get rid of 
them ; like a prudent nian, (a character congenial to 
my every thought, word, and deed,) 1 of two evils, Imve 
chosen the least, and am very drunk, at yoLU- sei vice !* 

1 wrote to you yesterday from Dumfries. I hail iivit 
time then to tell you all 1 wanted to say ; and heaven 
knows, at present 1 have not capacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must know ft, 

village of that name, celebrated for its medicinal wa- 
ters. — The woods of Craigie-burn and of Dumirief, 
were at one lime favourite haunts of our poet. It was 
there he met the " Lassie wi' the lint-white locks." and 
that he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics. E. 

• The bard must have been tipsy iudefeu, to abwa 
sweet Ectlefechan at this rale. E 



146 



LETTERS. 



WeUl ginsr nie mair to yon ftyion ? I think, in Blowish 
time, it w<oii!(l make an excedeiu song. 1 am highly cle- 
ligr/ed with it ; and it" yon should think it worthy of 
your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom f 
would consecrate it. 

As 1 am Ju8l going to bed, I wish you a good night. 



MR. THOMPSON TO MR. BURNS. 

25tk February, 1795. 
T have to thank you, my dear Sir, for two epistles, 
one containing Lei me in thin ae night ; and the other 
from Ecclefechan, proving that druiiK or snber, your 
" mind is nt^ver muddy." Yon have displayed gieat 
address in the above song. Her answer is excellent, 
and at the same time, takes away the indelicacy that 
otherwise would have attached to his entreaties. I 
like the song as it now stands, very much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested some days at Ec- 
elefeclian, and" be obliged to beguile the tedious fore- 
noons by song-making. It will give me pleasure to 
'sceive the verses you intend for Owatyeioha's in 
yon toten 7 



No. LXXII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 
ADDRESS TO THE WOODL.iRK. 

O stay sweet warbling woodlark. stay, 
Nor quit lor rae the .renibling spray. 

See Poems, p. 99. 

Let me know, your very first Jeasure, how you like 
thu long. 

cN CHLORTS BEING ILL. 

Chorus. 

Lonz, lous the night. 
Heavy cornea the morrow. 

See Poemt, p. 99. 

How do you like the foregoing.' The Irish air, Hu- 
mours of Glen, \a:i great favourite of mine; and as, 
except the silly stuff in ibe Poor oldier. there are not 
Rn7 ilecent verses for it, I have written for it as 
follows : 

SONG. 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reciton, 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume ; 

^ee Poems, p. S9. 



'Twas na her bonnie blue e'c was my ruin j 

Fair iho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing ; 

See Poems, p. 



Let me hear from you. 



No. LXXHL 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 



Tou must not think, my good Sir, that 1 have any in- 
to enhance the value of my gift, when 1 say, in 



justice to the ingenious and worthy Brtlrt that the i)^ 
sign and execution of the otter's Saturday Night .1, 
in my opinion, one uf the happiest productions of -ii- 
lan's pencil. 1 shall be grievously disappointed if you 
are not quite pleased with it. 

The figure intended for your portrait, I think strik- 
insly like you. as far as I tan remember your phis. 
This should make the piece interesting to your family 
every way. — Tell me whether Mrs. Burns finds vou out 
among the figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration with 
whiih I have read your pathetic Address to the Wood- 
Lark, your elegant Panegyric on Caledonia, and your 
affecting verses on Ch/oris's illness. Every reppated 
perusal of these gives new delight. The other song to 
" Laddie, lie near me," though not equal to these, it 
very pleasing. 



No. LXXIV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

How cruel are the parents, 
Who riches ouly prize ; 

See Poems, p. 100. 



Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. 
Round the wealthy, titled bride ; 

See Poems, p. 100. 

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I answer your 
orders ; your tailor coidd not be more punctual. 1 am 
just now In a high fit for poetizing, provided that the 
strait jacket of criticism don't cure me. If yuti can io 
a post or two administer a little of the intoxicating por- 
tiou of your applause, it will raise your humble ser» 
vant's frenzy to any height you want. I am at this 
m^'ment 'holding high converse" with the Muses, 
and have not a word to tlirow awsy ou such a prosaic 
dug as vou are. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

May, I7P5. 
Ten thousand thanks for your elegant present ; 
though I am ashamed of the value of it being bestowed 
on a man who has not by any means merited such an 
instance of kindness. I liave shown it to two or three 
judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree 
with me in classing it as a first rate production. My 
phiz is srte ken-spec Icle, that the very joinei's appren 
tice whom .Mrs. Burnes employed to break up the 
parcel (I wasou' of town that day) knew it ai oi.r.e. — 
My moat grateful compliments to Allan, who has hon- 
oured my rustic muse so much with his masterly pencil. 
One sininge coincidence is, that the little one who is 
making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the 
most striking likeness of an iti-deedie, d — n'rf wee, 
nimbi e-gai'-je urchin of mine, whom, from that pro 
pensity to witty wickedness, and manfu' mischief, 
which even at two daysauld, I foresaw would form the 
striking features of his dis|K>sition, I n^med Willie Ni- 
col, after a certain friend of mine, who is one of the 
masters of a grammar-school in a city which shall be 
nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my much-valued friend 
Cunningham, and tell him that on Wednesday I go to 
visit a friend of his, to whom his friet dly partiality in 
speaking of me in a inannpr introduced me — 1 mean 
a wpll-known military and literary character, Colund 
Dirom. 



LETTERS. 



147 



Too Jo not tell me how you liked my two last songs. 
re tbey condemned 1 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

13th May, 1795. 
It gives me great pleasure to find that you are so 
well satisfied with Mr. Allan's production. The 
chance resemblance of your little fellow, whose pro- 
mising disposition appeared so very early, and sug- 
gested whom he should be named after, is curious 
enough. I am acquainted with that person, who Is a 
ppHligy of learning and genius, and a pleasant fellow, 
though no saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell me you 
have not merited the drawing from me. I do not think 
I can ever repay you, or sufliciently eswem and re- 
spect you for the liberal antl kind manner in which you 
have entered into the spirit of my undertaking, which 
Could not have been perfected without you. So I beg 
you would not make a fool of me again, by speakhig of 
obligation. 

I like your two last songs very much, and am happy 
to find you are in such a high fit of poetizing. Long 
may it last I Clarke has made a fine pathetic air to 
Mallet's superlative ballad of Willi'rin and Margaret, 
and is to give it me to be enrolled among the elect. 



No. LXXVII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

In Whistle, and PI.I come to yon, my lad, the itera- 
tion of that line is liiesome to my ear. Here goes 
what 1 think is an improvement. 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad, 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad : 

Tho' father and mother and a' should gae mad, 

Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye my lad. 

!n fact, a fair dame at whose shrine, I the Priest of 
the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus; a dame, 
whom the Graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom 
the loves have armed with lightning, a b'air One, her- 
self the heroine of ihe song, iitsists on the amendment: 
and dispute her commands if you dare ! 

SONG. 

O thix is no my ain lassie. 
Fair Iko' Ike lassie be; 

See Poems, p. 100. 

Do you know that you have roused the torpidity of 
Clarke at last? He has requested me to write tliree 
or four songs for him, which he is to set to music him- 
self. 'I'he enclosed sheet contains two songs for him, 
which please to present to my valued friend Cunning- 
ham. 

I enclose the sheet open, both for your inspection, 
and that you may copy the song, O honme was ym 
Diyhr.er. I do not know whether I am right; but 
that song pleases me, and as it is extrejnely probable 
that Clarke's newly roused celestial spark will be soo.i 
smothered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the song, 
it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of / wish my 
love was 171 a mire ; and poor £rskine's English lines 
may follow. 

I enclose you, a For re' that and a' that, which was 
never in print ; it is a much superior song to mine. 
I have been told that it was composed by a lady. 
Now spring has clad the grove in gieen 
And strew'd the lea wi' flowers : 



See Poems, p. 100 



O bonnie was yon rosy brier 
That blooms aae far frae haunt o' mati ; 

See Foetus, p. 101. 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the lR«t HI. 
tion of my poems, presented to the lady, whom, in m 
many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the o<o*t 
ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often 
sung under the name of Chloris. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair frieiid, 
Nor thou the gift refuse, 

See Poems, p. 101, 
Urie bagatelle de V amitie. COILA. 



No. LXXVTII. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 3d Aug. IISS. 
MV DEAR STR, 

This will be delivered to you by a Pr. Brianton. who 
has read your works, and pants fur the honour of your 
acquaintance, 'do not know the gentleman, hut h!a 
friend, who applied to me for this introduction, being 
an excellent young man, I have no doubt he is worthy 
of all acceptation. 

My eyes have Just been gladdened, and mv mind 
fpnsted, with your last packet — full of pleasant thing* 
indeeil. A^Tiat an imagination is yours ! It is super- 
fluous to tell you that I am delighted with all the three 
songs, as well as with your elegant and tender verse* 
to Chloris. 

T am sorry you should be induced to alter O whistle, 
anrf T'll c'>me 'n ne. mv larJ. to the prosaic line, T' ?/ 
Jenmi mil venture wV ye, my lad. I must be permit- 
ted to say, that 1 do not think the latter either read* 
or sings so well as the former. I wish therefore, you 
would in my name petition the charming .leany 
whoever she be, to let the line remain unaltered.* 

I should he happy to see Mr. Clarke produce a fe'^ 
airs to be joined to your verses. Every body regrets 
his writing so very little, as every hmly acknuwlprlofs 
his abilitv to write well. Pray was' the r»«nliiii.in 
formed cooly before dinner, or was it a midnight tow, 
made over a bowl of punch with the bard 7 

T shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham what you 
have sent him. 

P. S. The lady's For re' thn.f and a' that, is sensible 
enough, but no more to be compared to yours than I 
to Hercules. 



No. LXXIX 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMPSON 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near. 
Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 

See Poems, p. 101. 

How do yon like the foregoing? I have written it 
within this hour : so much for the speed of my Pegassus, 
but what say you to his bottom 7 

* The editor, who has heard the heroine of this song 
sing it herself in the very spirit of arch simplicity that 
it requires, thinks M. Thomson's petition imreasona- 
ble. If we mistake no* this is the sanre lady who pr - 
ducedthe lines u the time of K...*. »■ ife, ante, p. 



148 



LETTERS. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

lOBt May the braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 
Aud sair wi' his love did he deave me ;* 

See Poems, p. 101. 



Why. wliy tell thy lover, 
bliss he aever must enjoy 7 

See Poems, p, 102. 

Such U the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, 
that I find it impossible to make aiiotlier slauza to 
■uit it. 

1 am at present quite occupied with the charming 
eep.satiouB ut' the toulh-ach, so have not a word to 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

3d June, 1795. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Your Knglisli verses to Let me m this ae night, are 
tender anil iieauiilul . and your ballad to the ' Lolhiiiu 
Lassie," is a niaslerpicce tor its humour and i.ai- 
veie. I'he Iragnient lor the Valednnian Hun is quile 
suited to the original measure of tlie air, and, as il 
plagues you so, lite Iragnienl must content it. 1 
Would rather, as l saiil before, have had uacchanalian 
words, had it so pleased the poet . but, neverthclcsa, 
fur what we have received. Lord make us thankful 1 



No. LXXXII. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS, 



O Robby Bums, are ye sleeping yet t 
Or are ye loauking, f would wit I 



The pause you have maae, my dear Sir, is awful ! 
Am I never to hear from you again / I know and I 
lament how much you have been aHlicled of late, but 
i IruHt that reluming health and spnits will now 
enable you to resume the pen, and delight us with 
your musings. 1 have still about a dozen bcotcli and 
Irish airs that 1 wish '' married to immortal verse. ' 
\Ve have several true born Irishmen ou the Scottish 
list; but they are now nalutalized, and reckoned our 
own good suojects. Indeed we have none belter. 1 
believe 1 before tiild you that i had been much urged 
by some friends to publish a collection of all our favour- 
ite airs and songs in octavo, embellished with a num- 
ber of etchings by our ingenious friend Allan , — what 
is your ophiion of this 7 

* In the original MS. the third line of the fourth 
Terse runs, " He up the Oaumlnck to my black cousin 
Bess." Mr. Thomson objected to this word, us well 
M to the wcrd, Lialiarnock in the next Terse. Mr. 
Buras replies as follows : 

" Gatestack is the name of a particular place, a kind 
•f passage up among the Lawther hills, on the coulinec 
of this county. UalgarnocK is also the name of a r..- 
vtantic spot near the Nitli, where are still a ruined 
church and burial-grouml. However, let the first run, 
" He up the laug loan," &c. 

It is always a pity to throw out any thing that gives 
tocAlity to our poet'o vsrtes. E. 



No. LXXXIII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1796. 
Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your handsome, ele- 
gant present, to Mrs. 13 , and for my remuii)iiii{ 

vol. of P. 1 indar. — r'eter is a deliglilful follow, and a 
first favourite of mine. 1 am much pleased with your 
idea of publishing a collection of our songs in octavo, 
with etchings, I am extremely willing to lend every 
assistance in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheer- 
fully undertake the task of finding verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipped three with 
words, and the other day 1 strung up a kind of rha|>» 
sody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire 
much. 

HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alaims. 
The sleuder bit beauty you grasp in your armi 
Su Poe.ns, p. 102. 

If this will do, you have now four of my Irish en- 
sagement. In my by-past songs I dislike one thing ; 
the name of ( hloris — I meant as the fictitious name of 
a certain lady : but, on second tliousilits, it is a high 
incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a Scottish 
pastoral ballad. — Of this and some things else, in my 
next : f have more ameudmenls to propose. — What 
you once mentioned of " flaxen locks" Is just ; they 
cannot enter into an ele^ml description of beauty. Of 
this also again — God bless you !* 



No. LXXXIV. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Your Hey for a Inj-s irt' a tocher, is a most exceHent 
song, and with you the subject is something new in- 
ilecd. It is the first time I have seen you debasing the 
god of soft desire, into an amateur of acres and 
guineas.— 

I am happy to find you a|ii)rove of my proposed octa- 
vo edition. Allan has designed and etched about 
twenty plates, and I am to have my choice of them for 
that work. Independently of the Hogarthian humour 
with which they abound they exhibit the character 
and cosuime of the Scottish peasantry with inimilahle 
felicity. In ihis respect, he himself says tliey will far 
exceed the atpiatinla plates he did for the iienllo 
Shepherd, because in the etching he sees clearly wh, it 
he isdoiiis. but not so with the aquatinta, which ha 
could not manage to his mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely in-ire cha- 
racteristic and natural than the Scottish figures in 
those etchings. 



No. LXXXV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THON!SON. 

A/nil, \T96. 
Alas, my dear Thomson, I f?ar II will be som« time 
ere I tune my lyte again I •• By ! label streams I have 
sal and wept." almost ever since I wrote yon lust : I 
have only known existence by the pressure of the heavy 
hand of sickness and have counted lime by the reper- 
cussions of pain : Hheiimatism. cold and fever, have 
formed to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes 
ill misery, and open them without ho|<e, I look on tii« 
vernal day. and say with poor FergiiKson-- 

' Our Poet never explained what name ha wojid 
have eub8'.ilnt>>d foi Chloris. 

Noie by Mr. Thomson. 



' LETTERS. 



149 



•• Say. whjrefore has an all-Indulgent Heaven 
I<ight to ihe comfortless and wi etched given 7" 

Thia will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyslop 
liiridlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for these 
inuiiy years has beei. my kowff, and where our friend 
C'arke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am 
highly delighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. Woo'd 
and married an' a', is admirable. 'y\\& srowpingis 
beyond all praise. The expression of the figures con- 
formable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely fault- 
less perfection. 1 next admire, Tuiti-im-sr-ike. What 
I like least is Jenny said to Jockey. Besides the female 
being in her appearance * * * * if 

you take her stooping into the account, she is at least 
two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn : 1 
siricerely sympathize with him ! Happy I am to think 
that he has yet a well grounded hope of health and 
eujoyment iu thi» world. As for ine--but that is 
a * • • * subject 1 



No. LXXXVI. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

AthMay, 1796. 
I need not tell you, my good Sir, what concern the 
receii)t of your last gave me, and how much I sympa- 
thize in your sufferings. But do not 1 beseech you, 
give youiself up to despondency, nor speak thj lan- 
gr.agc of despair. The vigour of your constitution, 1 
trust, will soon set you on youi feet again : and then 
it is to be hoped you will see the wisdom and the neces- 
sity of taking due care of a life so valuable to your 
family, to your friends, and to the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable ac- 
counts of your convalescence, and returning good 
spirits, I remain with sincere regard, yours. 

P. S. Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered the 
gold seal to yvc i:i £;=od conditiou. 



No. LXXXVII. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

1 once mentioned to you an air which T have long ad- 
m\rfiA--Here's a lienlllito them that's awa, hinnie. but 
1 forget if you took any notice of it. 1 have just been 
trying to suit it with verses : and 1 beg leave to recom- 
mend the air to your attention once more. I have 
only begun it. 

Chorus. 

Here's a health to ane Ilo'e dear. 
Here's a health to ane Ilo'e dear ;* 

See Poems, p. 102. 



No. LXXXVIIl. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a young 
fellow of uncommon merit. As he wili be a day or 
two in town, you will have leisure if you choose to 
writameby him : and if you have a spare half hour to 
sjjeud with hi"a, I shall place your kindness to my 

• in the letter to Mr. Thomson, .the three first stan- 
zas only are given, and Mr. Thomson supposed our 
poet had never gone farther. Among his MSS. was, 
however, founcl the fourth stanza, which completes 
this exquisite song, the last finished offspring of his 



account. I have no copies of the song* I hare sent you, 

and I have taken a fancy to review them all, and po»» 
sibly may mend some of them so, when you hav 
complete' leisure, 1 would thank you for either the 
originals or copies.* I had rather be tlie author of five 
well-written songs, tVian of ten otherwise. I have 
great hopes that the genial influence of the approach- 
ing summer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot 
boast of returning health. 1 have now reason to be- 
lieve that my complaint Is a flying gout — a sad busi- 
ness. 

Do let me know bow Cleghoro is, and remember me 
to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a month ago. 
I am still very poorly, but should like mucli to hea/ 
from you. 



No. LXXXIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Brow, on the Solway Frith, I2th July, 1796. 

After all my boasted independence, cursed necessi* 
compels me to implore you for five pounds. A crue 
* " * * of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an at 
count, taking it iuto his head that 1 am dying, has con 
menced a process, and will infallibly put me into JKi\. 
Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by re- 
turn of post, forgive me this earnestness, but the 
horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. 1 do 
not ask all this gratuitously ; for, upon returning 
health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you 
with five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you 
have seen. 1 tried my hand on KoUdeiuurckit: this 
morning. The measure is so difficult, that it is iinpcs- 
sible to infuse much genius into the lines ; they are ca 
'he other side, i'orgive, forgive me 

SONG. 



Fairest maid on Devon Banks, 
Chryslai Devon, toinding Oevon,^ 

See Poems, p. 102. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

iiUi July, 1796. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Ever since I received your melancholy letter by Mrs. 
Hyslop, J have been ruminating in what manner I 
could endeavour to alleviate youi sufferings, rtgiiin 
and again i thought of a pecuniary offer, but the recol- 
lection of one ol your letters on this subject, and tlie 
fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my 
resolution. 1 thank you heartily therefore for the frank- 
ness of your letter of the 12th, and with great pleasiira 
enclose a draft for the very sum I proposed sending. 
Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer for one daf 
for your sake? 

* It is needless to say that this revisal Burns did not 
live to perform. E. 

t This song, and the letter enclosing it, are written 
in a character that marks the very feeble state of 
Burns's bodily strength. Mr. Syme is of opinion that 
he could not have been in any danger of a jail at Dum- 
fries, where certainly he had many firm friends ; nor 
under any such necessity of imploring aid from Edin- 
burgh. But about this time his reason began to be at 
times unsettled, and the horrors of a jail perpetually 
haunted his imagination. He died on the 21st of thi* 
month. E. 



150 



LETTERS. 



I'ray, my pood Sir, is it not possible foi yon to muster 
t *<>lume of poetry 7 If too much trouble to you in liie 
tiKf'M slate ofynur he;\ll!i, some liter iry friend mi»ht 
he found here, who would select and arrange from 
your manuscripts, and lalce upon him the task of Edi- 
tor. In the mean time it could be advertised (o be 
published by suiiscription. Do not shun this mode of 
oMainin? ttie value of your labour: remember Pope 
piiblished the Iliad by subscription. Think of this, my 
dear liurna. and do not reckon me intrusive with my 
advice, ^'oa are too well convinced of the respect and 
friendship I bear you to impute any thing I say to an 
unworthy motive, Voars faithfully. 



The verses to RotVemuTchie will answer finely. I 
,ni happy to see you can still tune your lyre. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER, 

FROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE. 

It mav gratify curiosity to know some particulars of 
the hiRlory of the preceding Poems.' on which the 
celebrity of our Bard has been hitherto founded : and 
with this view the following extract is made from a 
letter of Gilbert Burns, the brother of our poet, and 
his friend and confidaul from his earliest years. 



Mosgill, 2d April, 1798. 
DEAR SIR, 

Voiir letter of the Ulh of March I received in due 
course, but from the hurry of the season have been 
hitherto hindered from answering it. I will now try to 
give yuu what satisfaction 1 can, in regard to the par- 
ticulars you mention. I caiii>ol pretend to be very ac- 
curate in respect to the dates of the poems, but none of 
tliem. except iVinler a JJuve, (which wts a juvenk.e 
pioduction.j The Oenili nnl Dy:ng words of Foor 
M iillie, and some of the songs, were composed before 
the year HdJ. The circumslaitces of the poor sheep 
Were pretty much as he has described them. He bad 
iiartly by way of frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs 
from a neighbour, and she was tethered in a field ad- 
joining the house at Lochlie. He and I were going 
out, with our tean:8, and our two younger brothers to 
drive for us, at mid-day; when Hugh Wilson, a curi- 
Di-B looking awkward boy, clad in plaiding, came to ijs 
With much anxiety in his face, with the information 
that the ewe had entangled herself in the tether, and 
was lying in the ditch. Hobert was much tickled with 
/iu ic's appearance and postures or. the occasion. Poor 
Maillie was set to rights, and when we returned from 
tlie plough in the evening, he repealed to me her Death 
an I Di/ing Words, pretty much in the way they now 
ktand. 

Among the earliest of his poems was the Epistle to 
Dneiv. Robert often composed without any regular 
iilan. When any thnig made a strong impression on 
i>is mind, so as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would 
give way to the impulse, and embody the thought in 
rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please 
him, he would then think of proper introductory, con- 
necting, and concluding stanzas , hence the middle of 
a poem was often first proiluced. It was, I think, in 
summer n«i, when in the interva.'of harder labour, 
he and I were weeding in the garden, (kailyard.) that 
he repeated to me the principal part of this epistle. I 
believe the first idea of Robert becoming an author 
was started on this occasion. 1 was much pleased 
with the epistle, and said to him. 1 was of opniion it 
Would bear being printed, and that it would be well re- 
ceived by people of taste ; that I thought it at least 
equal if not superior to many of \llan Kamsay's epis- 
tles . Hud that the merit of these, and much other 
Scotch jioetry, seemed to cousist principally in the 
knack of the expression, but here, there was a train 
of interesting seutiment, and the bcoticism of the Ian- 

• This refers to the pieces inserted before page 60 of 



guage scarcely seemed affecte<l, but appeared to be the 
natural language of the poet that, besidt-s, tliere w.is 
certainly some novelty in a poet poin)ing out tne con. 
solatious that were in store tor him when lie should go 
a-begging. Robert seemed very well pleased with my 
criiicisnrv. and we talked of seniiins it to some maja- 
ziiie, but as this plan afforded no opportunity of know 
ingliow it w^ould take, the idea wasdiopped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following as we were 
going together with carts for coal to the family fire (and 
I could yet point out the particular spot) that the au- 
thor first repeated to me the Address to tlie Deil. The 
curious idea of such an address was suggested to him 
by running over in his mind the many ludicrous ac- 
counts and representations we have, from various 
quarters, of this august personage. Death an/ Dic- 
t'lr Hornbook, ihon^h not published in the Kilmarnock 
edition, was produced early iii the "ear 17S.5. 'I'he 
.Schoolmaster of Tarbollon parish to' eke up the scan- 
ty subsistence allowed to that useful class of men, 
had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having acciden- 
tally fallen in with some medical books, and become 
most hobby-horsically attached to the study of medi- 
cine, he liaa added the sale of a few medicines to his 
little trade. He had got a shcp-biU printed, at the 
bottom of which, overlooking his own incapacity, he 
had advertised, that Advice would be given in '• com- 
mon disorders at the shop gratis." Robert was at a 
mason meeting in Tarbolton, when the Dominie un- 
fortunately made too ostentatious a display of his medi- 
cal skill. As he parted in the evening from this mix- 
tore of pedantry and physic, at the place where he de- 
scribes his meeting with Death, one of those floating 
ideas of apparition he mentions in his letter to Dr. 
Moore, crossed his mind : this set him to work for the 
rest of the way home. These circumstances he rela- 
ted when he re[)eated the verses to me next afternoon, 
as I was holding the plough, and he was letting the 
water off the field beside me. The Epia'le to John 
Lninaik was produced exactly on the occasion de- 
scribed by the author. He says in that poem. On faf- 
eu-c'en, ue had a rockin. I believe he has omitted the 
word rnckins in the glossary. It is a term derived 
from those primitive times, when the countrywomen 
employed their spare hours in spinning oi; the rack, or 
distaff. This simple implement is a very portable one, 
and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a 
neighbour's house ; hence the phrase of soin% a-rock- 
inz, or tcilk the rock. .As the connexion the phrase 
had with the implement was forgotten, when the rock 
gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to 
be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men 
talk of going with their rocks as well as women. 

It was at one of these rockinga at our house when 
we had twelve or fifteen young peo|)le with their rocks, 
that Lapraik's song begiiming — '• When I upon thy 
bosom lean," was sung, and we were informed who 
was the author. Upon this, Robert wrote his first 
epistle to Lapraik ; and his second in reply to his an- 
swer. The verses to the Mouse and Mountain Da sy 
were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while 
the author was holding the plough ; 1 could point out 
the particular spot where each was composed. Hold- 
ing the plough was a favourite situation with Robert 
for poetic composition, and some of his best verses 
were produced while he was at that exei else. Several 
of the poems were produced for the purpose of bringing 
forward some favourite seutiment of the author. He 
used to remark to me. that he could not well conceive 
a more mortifying picture of human life, than a man 
seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this 
sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy Man 
was made to mourn, wsia composed. Robert had fre- 
quently remarked to me that he thought tljeie wae 
something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let ue 
worsiiip God." used by a decent, sober head of a fami. 
ly, introducing family worship. To this sentiment ot 
the author the world is indebted for the ''-offer's Si ur. 
day Night. The hint of the plan, and title of tht 
poem, were taken from Fergusson's Farmers'' Inrle. 
When Robert had not some pleasure in view, in which 
I was not thought fit tojurlicipate, we iiseil frequei;'.:y 
to walk together, when the weather was favourahie 
Qu the Sunday afternoons (those precious breaUiiii| 



LETTERS. 



151 



Ames totlie labouring part of the commimity,) and en- 
Joyed aucb iSiiiiduys a» would innke one regret to see 
their number abridged, it was in one of these walks, 
that I first had tlie pleasure of hearing tlie author re- 
peat the Co let's Sulurda)/ Ni^/u. I do not recollect 
to have heaid or read any thing by wliich i was more 
highly elec rijicd. The lilth and sixth stanzas, and (he 
eigliteeiiih, thrilled with jieculiar ecstacy through my 
euul. 1 mention this to yuu, that you may see what 
hit the taste of unleuered criticism. I should je glad 
to know if the enlightened mind and refined taste of 
Mr. Koscoe, who lias borne such honourable testimony 
to this poem, agrees wiili me in the selection. Fer- 
gusson, m his dcdLjia fair of Edinburgh, I believe, 
likewise furnished a hint of the title and plan of the 
Hoty-l-'air. i he farcical scene the poet ihere de- 
scribes was often a favorite field of his observation, and 
• he most of the incidents he mentions had actually 
passed before his eyes. It is scarcely necessary to 
niention thai the J^auien' was composed on that uiifor- 
tiniate passage in his maiiimonial history, which I 
have mentioned in my letter to .Mrs. iJunlop, after the 
first distraction ol his feelings had a little subsided. 
The 'I'aL of I'lca L/o^s was composed after the reso- 
•ution of publisliing was nearly taken. Uobert had 
had a dog, which he called ^u,i .'i, that was a great fa- 
vourite. The dog had been killed by the wanton cruel- 
ty of some person the night betore my father's death. 
Robert said to me, that he should like to confer such 
immortality as he could bestow upon his old friend 
Liuat'i, and that he had a great mind to introduce 
something into the book under the title of Stanzax lo 
Vie Meniuiy of a r/undrape.d friend ; but this plan was 
given up for the J'ace as it now stands. C't^s i/- was 
merely the creature of the poet's imagination created 
or the purpose of holding chat with his favourite Lu- 
a. k. 'I he first time Robert heard the spiiinet played 
U|)on, wa« at the house of Or. Lawrie. then minister of 
the parish of Loudon, now in ulasgow, having given 
up the parish in favour of his son. \)r. Lawrie has 
f'-veral daughters: one of them played; the father 
anil mother led down the dance : the rest of the sisters, 
the lirc'litr tlie poet, and the other guests, mixed in it. 
Jt was a delightful family scene for our poet, then late- 
ly uitroauceil to the world. His mind was roused to a 
poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas p.ASoft/ie foems, 
■were left in the room w'lere he slept. It was to Dr. 
Lawrie that Dr. ulacklock's letter was addressed, 
which my brother, in his letter to Dr. Moore, mentions 
as the reason of his going to Edinburgh. 

When my fa ther /eueri his little property near .Allo- 
way-Kirk, the wall of the church-yard had gone to 
ruin, and cutile had free liberty of pasturing in it. 
My father, with two or three other neighbours, joined 
in an ajiplicati'-in to the town council of Vyr. who were 
superiors of the adjoining land, for liberty to rebuild it, 
and raisetl by subscription a sum for enclosing this an- 
cient cemetery with a wall ; hence he came to consider 
it as his burial-place, and we learned that reverence 
for it [leople generally have for the burial-place of their 
ancestors. Aly brother was living in Eilisland. when 
( aptain Grose, on his peregrinations through Scot- 
land, staid some time at Jarsehouse, In the neighbour- 
hood, with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen-Riddel, a 
l>articular friend of my brother's. The .Antiquarian 
and the poet were " Unco pack and thick thegither." 
Robert requested of Captain Grose, when he should 
come to .-iyrshire, that he atouUI make a drawing of 
/Mloway-Kirk, as it was the burial-place of hi father, 
and where he himself had a sort of claim to lay down 
his jcues "when they should be no longer serviceable to 
him : and added byway ot encouragement, that it was 
the scene of many a good story of witches and appari- 
tions, of which he knew the captain was very fond. 
The Captain agi-eed to the request, provided the poet 
would furnish a witch- tory, to be printed along with 
It. Tarn o' S'lan er was produced on this occasion, 
and was first published in Grose's An ijui-ies of Scoi- 
land. 

The poem is founded on a traditional story. The 
leading circumstances of a man riding home very late 
from .yr. in a stormy night, his seeing a light in A\- 
U/way-Kirk, hit having the curiosity to look in. his 



seeing a dance of witches with the devii playing on the 
bagpipe to them, the scanty cuvuring uf one of the 
witches, which made him bo Ur forget himself, as to 
cry IVeel loapen, srujri sark .'--with the melancholy 
catastrophe of the piece is all a true story, thai can be 
well attested by many respectable old people in that 
neighbourhood. 

1 do not at present recollect any circumstances re- 
specting the other poems that could be at all inieiest- 
lag . even some of those l have mentioned, 1 am afraid 
may appear trifling enough, but you will only mak« 
use of wliat appears to you of consequence. 

The following poems in the first Edinburgh Edition, 
were notiu that pubhshed in Kilmarnock. Oeatk o/ii 
Vr. Hornbook ; llie Bngs of Ayr; ihe Calj ; (the 
poet had been with Mr. Gavin Hamilton in the mor- 
ning, who said jocularly to him when he was going to 
church, in allusion to the injunction of some parents 
to ihtir children, that he must be sure to bring him a. 
note of the sermon at mid-day: this addrtss to the 
Reverend Gentleman on his text was accordingly pro- 
duced.; Tlie Ordinalion; T.ie Address 10 Jie Lnto 
Gaid ; Tarn Samson's ^le^y ; A ^^'inier iWig/i-! ; S an- 
zas on tke saine occasijn as tlie preceding frayer; 

Verses left al a Reverend friend's House; Tke first 
Psalm ; Prayer under the Pressure of violenl An- 
guish ; the first .i'zx Verses of the Nine ie;k Psalm ; 

Verses to Miss Logan, with Beanie's Poemt ; To a 
Haggis; Address to Edinburgh ; John Barleycorn ; 

When (JuiLford Guid j Beliind yon kills wliere S :n- 
charjiows; Green grow tlie tiaatiea ; Again rejoicing 
Nature sees ; The gloomy NiglU ; No Churchman 1 



If you have never seen the first edition, it will, per- 
haps, not be amiss to transcribe the preface, that you 
may see the manner in which the poet made his first 
awe-6truck approach to the bar of public judgment. 

{Here followed tlie Preface as giaen in the Jirtt paga 
of the Puerru.] 

I am. deal Sir, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 

U LdERT BURNS. . 
DR. CURRIE, Liverpool. 



To this history of the poems \5rhich are contained in 
this volume, it may be added, that our author appears 
to have made little alteration in them after their origi- 
nal composition, except in some few instances whtre 
considerable additions have been introduced. After 
he had attracted the notice of the public by hia first 
edition, vario"s criticisms were oflcred him on the pe- 
culiarities of his style, as well as of his senlimtnts ; 
and some of these, which remain among his manu- 
scripts, are by persons of great taste and judgment. 
Some few of these criticisms he adoptea, but {lie far 
greater part he rejected; and, though semething has 
by this means been lost in point of delicacy and correct- 
ness, yet a deeper impression is left of the strength and 
originality of his genius. The firmness of our poet 
character, arising from a just confidtnce in his own 
powers, may, in part, explain his lenaciomness of hi8 
peculiar expressions ; but it may be in some degree 
accounted for also, by the circumstai;ces under which 
the poems were composed. Burns did not, like men 
of genius bom under happier auspices, retire, in the 
moment of inspiration, to the silence and solitide of 
his study, and commit his verses to paper as '.hey 
arranged themselves in his mind. Fortune did not 
afford' him this indulgence. It was during the toils of 
dailv labour that his fancy exerted itself ; the muse, as 
he himself informs us, found him at the plough. In this 
situation, it was necessary to fix hii verses on liis 
memory, and it was often many days, nay weeks, 
after a poem was finibhed, before it was written down. 
TXiring all this time, by frequent repetition, the aJtocia 
tion between the thought and the expres.Mon was con- 
firmed, and the impartiality of taste with which written 
language u reviewed and retouched after it has fa<L< J 



152 



LETTERS. 



oil the memory, coulrl nol in such instances be exerted. 
The original aiaMUscri|jls ol muny ol his puems are 
iir-'sei'veil, and they ditier in uoiliini; raaieriai Irom the 
Li8l printed edition. Some lew variations may be 
QUliced. 

1. In The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer after 
the stanza beginning, 

Erskine a spunkie, Norland Billie, 

there appears, in his booic of manuscripts, the fol- 
low iug : 

Thee, Sodger Hugh, my watchman steuted, 

]f Bardies e'er are represented : 

I ken if that your sword were wanted 

Ye'd lend your hand ; 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye'er at a stand. 

Sodger Hugh, is evidently the present Earl of Eg- 
lintoun, then Colonel Montgomery of Coilsfield, and 
representing in parliament the county of Ayr. Why 
this was left out in printing does not appear. The 
iiolile earl will not be sorry to see this notice of him, 
familiar tliough it be, by a bard whose genius he admir- 
ed, and whose fate he lamented. 

2. In The Address to the Deil, the second stanza ran 
originally thus : 

Lang syne in Eden's happy scenfe. 
When strappin Adam's days was green, 
And Eve was like my boni.ie Jean, 

My dearest part, 
Adancin, sweet, young, handsome quean, 

Wi' guiltless heart. 

8. In The Elegy on poorjfdaillie, the stanza begin 
Biug, 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

W»i, at first, as follows . 

She was na get o' nmted rams, 

Wi' woo' like goals and le^slike trams ; 

She was the flower o' Fairlee iambs, 

A famous breed ; 
Now Robin, greetin, chows the hams 

O' MaiUie dead. 

It were a pity that the Fairlee lambs should lose the 
hoiior once intended them. 

4. But the chief variations are found in the poems 
U trodnced for the first time, in the edition of two 
T'lliimes, s.nall octavo, published in I7i.2. Of the poem 
wit ten in Frtar^ s-Carse Hermitage, there are seve- 
ral editions, and one of tlicse has nothing in common 
with the printed poem but the first four lines. The 
poem that is published, which was his second eflbrt on 
the subject, received considerable alteratioua in 
printing. 

Instead of the six lines beginning. 

Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 

bk manuscript the following are inserted : 

Spy, the criterion of their fate, 
Th' important query of their stale, 
Is not art thou high or low 1 
I>id thy fortune ebb or flow? 
Wert thou cottager or king ? 
Prince or peasant ? — no such thing, 

5. The Enistle to R. G. Esq. of P. that is. to R. 
Grnhnin, Esq. of Fmtra, also underwent considerable 
alterations, as m,iy be collected from the General Cor- 
respomlence. The style of poetry was new to our 
poet, and, though he was fitted to excel in it, it cost 
Dim RK>r« iroubla than his Scottish poetry . On tha 



contrary, Tarn o' Shanter seems to havt Issued jierfec* 
from the author's brain. The only coiisiilerabl« Altera. 
lion made on reflection, is the omission of four lines, 
which had been inserted after thejioem was finished, at 
tlie end of tlie dreadful catalogue of the articles found 
on the " lialy table," and which appeared in the first 
edition of the poein, printed separately — They came 
alter the line, 

Which even to name would be unlawfu'f 

and are as follows, 

Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside out, 
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout, 
And priests' heart, rotten, black as muck, 
Lay, stinking vile, in every neuk. 

These lines which, independent of other objections, 
interrupt and destroy the emotions ef terror wlni.h the 
preceding description had excited, were very iirojierly 
left out of the printed collection, by the advice of i\!r. 
Fraser Tytltr; to which Burns seems to have paid 
mucii deference.* 

6. The Address to the shade of Thomson, hp^nn in 
the first manuscript copy in the following manner : 

While cold eyc'd Spring, a virgin coy, 

Unfolds her verdant mf.ntle sweet ; 
Or jiranks the sod in frolic Joy, 

A carpet for her youthful feet ; 
While Summer, with a matron's grHce, 

Walks stately in the cooling shade j 
And, oft delighted, loves to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade ; 
While Autumn, benefactor kind. 

With age's hoary honours clad. 
Surveys with self -approving mind. 

Each creature on his bounty fed, &c. 

Bv the nlteration in the printed poem, it may be ques- 
tioned wli^.ther the poetry is much improved ; the jjoet 
however has found means to introduce the shadec c-f 
Dryburgh, the residence of the ICarl of Buchan, at 
whose request these verses were written. 

These observations might be extended, but what are 
already ofl'ered will satisfy curiosity, and there U no- 
thing of any importance that coiUd be added. 



THE FOLLOWING LETTER 

Of Bums, which contains some hints relative to tha 
origin of his celebrated lale )/" Tarn o' Shanter," 
the Publishers trust, will be found intet esting to 
every reader of his works. There appears no rea- 
son to d >ubt iif its being genuine, though it has not 
been inserted in his correspondencee published by 
Dr. Currie. 



TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ,. F.A.S.f 

Amongthe many witch stories I have heard relating 
to Alloway kirk, I distinctly remember only two or 
three. 

■* These four lines have been inadverter.tly replaced 
In the copy oi Tarn o' Shanter. pvililished in the first 
volume of the " Poetry, Original and Selected." of 
Brash and Reid.oi' Glasgow ; and to this circumstance 
is owing their being noticed here. As our poet delibe- 
rately rejected them, it is hoped th.it no future printer 
will insert them. 

t This Letter was first published in the Censura H 
reraria, 17S6, and was communicated to the Editor o( 
that work by Mr. Gilchrist of Stamford, aceomimuied 
with tha following remark. 



LETTERS. 



153 



llpnn awormy night, ami\( whiiMluig sfjnaUa of wind, 
ami iiillur I'lasla o!' hail ; in shun on such a night as 
lliK ile?il would chiise lo take the air in; a lai-nier ui- 
farmer's servant was plotl.lnig ;inil plashing hunieward 
Willi his plongli-irouis on his shoidder, having been get- 
ting some repairs on theiu at a ueighbonriiig emiihy. 
His way Uy by the kiik of AUoway, and being rather 
on the anxious look out OJi apjjnniching a place so well 
known to be a favonrite liaiint ol the devil and the d<; 
vil's friends and emissaries, he was struck aghast by 
(liscoveruig through ihe honors of the storm and 
stormy ni^t, a ■lights which on his nearer approach 
plainly showed itself to proceed from the haunted edi- 
fice. Whether he had been I'oriilied from above on his 
devout supplica'tiojj, as is cusiomary with people whe'i 
they suspect the iinnvediRie presence of tiyian, or 
whether, according to another custom, he had got 
coinagcously drunk at the sn*iUiy, i will i-.ot j)ret.eiid lo 
determine ; but so it was that he ventured lo go up to. 
nay into the very kii k. As guod l«ck would have il his 
teinevitjr came oft" unpunished. 

The members o( the inferitaJ jnjitowere ail out oji 
Bome midnigUt business or other, anil he saw iiBtliiug 
but a kind of kettle or caJdon depending fro«i the roof, 
ovet- the fire, sitnmeruig s.wne heads of ujichristened 
cliiklreu, limbg of executed rialeJ'actojs, &c. fer llie 
business of tlie iiij;ht. — Il was in for a jjenny, in for a 
pound, with the honest pl'mi^hriiaii : so witiiimi cere- 
mony he ujiJiookeil the caldron from off the fire, and 
pouring o«t the damnal)Je ingredients, inverted it on 
fats head, a«d carried il fairly ho<ne, where i^ remained 
long iuthe faiuily, a iiviiig evidence of the truth of the 
story. 

A«i«ther slory which I can prove to be equally au- 
ifaentic, was as foUowa : 

On a market <lay in tli* town of Ayr, a farmer from 
L'a< rjcJc, and cousequenUy whose way laid by the very 
t;ute of Alloway kirk-yard. Ill order to crcjs the river 
L)uon at the old bridge, which i« aboiit two or three 
liuiidred yards faither on than the said gate had been 
detained by his business, till by the liinc he reaiched 
Alloway it M/as the wizartl hour, between night and 
murniug. 

Though he was terrified with a blaze streaming froru 
tl»e kirk, yet as it is a weW known fact iliiil to turn back 
Oil these occasions is running by far the greatest risk 
id mischief, he prudently advanced on his road. Vv hen 
he had reached the gate of the Idrk-yaid be was sur- 
mised aud eiiteitained, ihruugh the ribs and arclies ol 



" lu a collection of miscellaneous |jai)ers of the Anti- 
quary (irose, wiiich 1 purchased a few years since, 1 
founil the following letter written to him by Biiius, 
when tlie former was iectiagthe Anti<^uities of Scot- 
land. When 1 premio .i was on the second tradition 
that he aftervravds formed tl»e iicimiiabie tale of ' 'I'aui 
o' Shanter,' I cannot doubt of it? being read with great 
interest. It were ' btirQuig day light' to point out to 
a rsader (and who is no' a readei of Burns .^) the 
thoughts he afterwai-ds traiisplaated ixito the rhythmi- 
cal BUTatiT^s." O.G. 



an old Godiic window, which still faces the highway, 
to see a daiice of witches mtrrily looting it ruiiiid their 
olil sooty iiluckguard master,' who was keeping tliein 
all alive wuh tie power of his bagpipe. '1 lie faruier 
stopi>!ng Ins horso to observe them a little, could plain- 
ly descry tiie faf ^ of many old women of his acquaint 
aiue aii.l .'leiglibouihood. How the geiitleinan wa* 
dre.ssed, tradition does uot say ; but the ladies were all 
in their smocks : and one of tliem happening unluckily 
to have a sniock which was coiisideralily too short to 
answer all the purposes of that piece of dress, our far- 
mer was so tickled, that he involuntarily burst out, 
with a loud laugh, •' Weel liippen Maggy wi' the siioii 
sark!"and recollecting liiiiiself instantly spurrtd his 
horse to the top of his speed. I iieea not mention the 
nuiversally known fact, tliat no diabolical iiowtr can 
pursue you beyond the middle of a running streaiii. 
l.ucky il 'ivus foi the poor farmer that the river Uuou 
was so near, for nolwHlistandiiig the speed of Ins horse , 
which was a' good one, against he reached the middle 
ol tiie arch of the bridge, and coiisequeiitly the middle 
of tlie stream, the puisiiiug vengeful hags, were su 
close at Ills heels, that one of lliern attiially sprung (>» 
seize liiiu ^jul it was loo kite, nothing was 'on her 
side of the Blreani but llie horse's tail, winch imme- 
diately gave way m her infernal gripe, as if blasted liy 
a stroke of lighmiiig . but the farmer was beyond In r 
feach. However, the unsightly, tailless condition of 
the vigorous steed was, to the last hour of the noble 
creature's life, an awfiii warning to the (Jarrick far 
jners, uot to stay too late iu Ayr markets. 

The last relation I shall give, though equally true, 
is not so well identified, as the two former, with regard 
to the scene ; but as the best a uthorities give it for .-il- 
loway, 1 shall relate it. 

Una summer's evening, about the time that nature 
puts oji her sa'iles to mourn the ex|)iry of the cheerful 
day a shefiherd hoy lielonging to a farmer in the im- 
mediate iieigliljon'h'ood of Uoway kirk, had just folded 
his iharge.-iuid was returni,ng home. As he passed the 
kirkin theailjoiniji^ field, he fell in with acrewofmeii 
and women who were busy pulliug stems of the plant 

Kagwort. He observed that as each person pulled a 
Ragwert, he or she got astride of it, and called out, 
" up luirsie !" on which the Ragwort flewofl'like . e- 
gas.sus, through the air with its rider. The foolish boj^ 
likewise pulled his H agwort, and cried with the rest 

' up horsie !" and. strange to tell, away he fiew with 
the company. '! he first stage at which the cavalcade 
£iop[)ed was a merchant's wine cellar iu Bourdeanx. 
where, without saying by your leave, they qut-Sed 
away at the best the cellar could afford, until the 
morning, foe to the imps and works of darkness, threat- 
ened to throw iight on the matter, ana frightened them 
from their carousals. 

The poor shepheid lad, being equally a stranger to 
the scene and the li-quor, 'hee<llessly got himself drunk : 
and when the rest took horse he fell asleep, and was 
found so next day by some of the people belonging to 
the merchant. Somebody that understood Scotch, ask- 
ing him what he was, be said he was such-a-one's 
herd in ' lloway. and by some means nr ether getting 
home again, he lived long to tell the world the won' 
drous tale. 



02 



APPEIVDIX. 



No. I.— Note A. See Life, p. 3, 

The Importance of the national establishment of 

parigh-ichoois in Scotland, will justify a short account 

of the legislative provisions respecting it, especially as 

the iubject has escaped the notice of all the historians. 

. By an act of the king (James Vlth) and privy coun- 
eilofthe 10th of December, 1616, it was recommended 
to hip bishops to deale and travel with the heritors 
(land proprietors) and the inhabitants of the respec- 
tive parishes in their respective dioceses, towaids the 
fixing upon " some certain, solid, and sure course" 
for settling and entertaining a school in each parish. 
This was ratified by a statute of '^-harles I. (the act 
1633, chap. 5.) which empowered the bishop, with th 



The legal salary of the school-master was not incon- 
siderable at the time it was fixed ; but by thedecrf a»s 
in the value of mfTiey, it ra now certaniJy iiiadequaia 
to its object; and it is painful to observe, that iha 
landholders of Scotland resisted the hmnble applica- 
tion of the school-masters to the legislature for its in- 
crease, a few years ago. The number of parishes in 
Scotland is 877 ; and ifwe allow the salary of a school- 
master in each to be on an average, seven pounds 
sterling, the amount of the legal provision will ba 
6,139^ sterling. If we suppose the wages paid by tha 
scholars to amount to twice the sum, which is proba- 
bly beyond the truth, the total of the expenses amon^ 
1.526.492 persons, (the whole population of Scotland.) 
of 'his most important establishment, will be lrf,il7J. 
'.,-.. ,* . , . ', - I3ul on this, as well as on other subjects respecting 

consent of the heritors of a parish, or ol a majority of Scotland, accurate information may soou be expected 



the inhabitants, if the heritors refused to attend the 
meeting, to assess every plough of land (that ia, every 
farm in proportion to the number of ploughs upon it) 
with a certain sum for establishing a school. This 
was an ineffectual provision, as depending on tlie con- 
sent and pleasure of the heritors and inhabitants. 
Therefore a new order of things was introduced by 
Sta:. 1646. chap. 17, which uUiges the heritors and 
minister of each parish to meet and assess the several 
heritors with the requisite sum for building a school- 
house, and to elect a school-master, and modify a 
■alary for him in all time to come. The salary is or- 
dered not to be under one hundred, nor above two 
hundred merles, that is, in our present sterling money, 
uot under 51. lis. 1 l-2d. nor above Ul. 2s; 3d. and 
the assessment is to be laid on tlie land in the same 
proportion as it is rated for the support of the clergy, 
and as it regulates the payment of the land-tax. But 
In case the heritors of any parish, or the majority of 
them, should fail to discharge this duly, then the per- 
sons forming what is called the Commii ee of Supply of 
the county (consisting of the principal landholders) or 
any five of them, are authorized by the statute to im- 
pose the asseosment instead of them, on the repre- 
seiUation of the presbytery in which the parish is situ- 
ated. To secure the choice of a proper teacher, the 
right of election by the heritors, by a statute passed in 
1693, c'la/i. 22, is made subject to the review and con- 
trol of the presbytery of the district, who have the ex- 
amination of the person proposed committed to them, 
both as to his qualifications as a teacher, and as to 
li.» proper deportment in the ofHce when settled in it. 
The election of the heritors ii therefore only a pre- 
•entmeut of a person for the approbation of the pres- 



from Sir John Sinclair's Analysis of his Statistics, 
which will complete the immortal monument lie has 
reared to his patriotism. 

The benefit arising in Scotland from the instruction 
of the poor, was soon felt ; and by an act of the Britisli 
parliament, 4 Gen. I. Chap. 6, it is enacted, "thai 
of the money's SL-ising from the sale of the Scottish 
estates forfeited in the rebellion of 1715, 2000Z. sterling 
shall be converted into a capital stock, the interest ot 
which shall be laid out in erecting and maintaining 
schools in the Highlands. The Society for propagaiin? 
Christian Knowledge, incorporated in 17U9, have aji- 
plied a large part of their fund for the same purpose. 
By their report, 1st May, 1795, the annual sum em 
ployed by them, in supporting their schools in the High- 
lands and Islands, was 3913/. 19.5. lOd., in which ara 
taught the English language, reading and writing, and 
the principles of religion. The schools of the society 
are additional to the legal schools, which from tha 
great extent of many of the Highland parishes, were 
found insufficient. Besides these established schools, 
the lower classes of people in Scotland, where tha 
parishes are large, often combine together, aiid estab- 
lish private schools of their own. at one of which it \va« 
that Burns received theprincipalpart of his education, 
So convinced indeed are the poor people of Scotland, 
by experience, of the benefit of instruction, to their 
children, that, though they may often find it difficult to 
feed and clothe them, some kind of school lastructiuD 
they almost alwava procure them. 

The influence of the school-establishment of Scotlajii 
on the peasantry of that countnr, seems to have dfci- 



bytery ; who, if they find him unfit, may declare his j^j by experience a question of' legislation of the ut- 
Incapacity, and thus oblige them to elect anew, So|n,j,gt importance-whether a system of national in- 
fer u stated on unque»tionabl» authority.* gtruction for the poor be favourable to morals ;'D.i 

I good government. In the Tear 1698, Fletcher of Sa'.to-i 

•The authority of A* Frazer Tytlar, and l}*yld declared as follows : '-There are at this day in Scot- 

R«m*, £iqr». Jla«d, two huHdred tko«»a«d p««pi« h«gfiiog from ilaor 



156 



APPENDIX, No. I 



to door. Ami tlioiigh the number of tbeni be peihapa . sesses a country that may be said to be sieriJe. In Ui« 
tiouble to what H wan furmerly, by leas u of this I neighbourhood of countries eomparHtirely ricli. Flenea 
present great distress, (a fumiue tijen prc'vailed,) yet in emigrations and ibe other efleci* on conduct and cnarac- 
all- liinea there have been about one hundred thousand ( ter which such circumstance* naturally prouuce. Tliii 
t)f those Tagabondg, who have lived withuul any re- j subject is in a high degree cuiious. The (joinia of die- 
gard or subjection either to the law* of the land, or i similarity between these nations might be traced to 
even to those of tind and Nature ; fathers incestuous- | their causes also, and the whole investigation would 
ly accompanying with their own daughters, the son [ perhaps admit of an approach to certainly ai our con 
with the mother, and the brother with the sister." lie | elusions, to which such inquiiies seldom lead, how 
goes on' to say that no magistrate ever could discovei i much superior in morals, in intellect, and in happi- 
Ihat they had ever been baptised, or in what way one ness, the peasantry of those parts of Kngland are wiio 
ill a hundred weutoul of the world. He accuses them have opportunities of instruction, to the same cluss in 
as frequently guilty of robbery, and sometimes of rnur- other situations, those who inquiic into the subjeoi 
dtr : ■ In years of plenty," says he, " many thousands will speedily discover. The peasantry of Wesimure- 
"f men meet together in the mountains, where they | land, and of the other districts mentioned ?bove, if 
feast and riot for many days ; and at country wed- | their physical and moral qualities be taken togethei-, 
dmgs, markets, bunaU, and other public occasions, I are, in the opinion of the Kditor, superior to the pea» 
they are to be seen, both men and women, perpetually 
drunk, cursiug, blaspheming, and fighting logether.'' 
'I'his highminded statesman, of whom it is said by 
contemporary " that he would lose his life readily to 



save his country, and wopld not do a base thing to 
serve it," thought the evil so great that he purposed as 
a remedy, the revival of domestic slavery, according 
to the practice of his adored republics in the classic 
ages! A better remedy has been found, which in the 
silent lapse of a century has proved effectual. The 
statute of 1696, the noble legacy of the f!cotlish t^arlia- 
ment to their country, began soon after this to ope- 
rate : and happily, rs the minds of the poor received 
Instruction, the Union opened new channels of in- 
dustry, and new fields of action to their view. 

At the present day there is perhaps uo country in 
Kurope, in which, in proportion to its population, so 
email a number of crimes fall under the chastisement 
of the criminal law, as Scotland. We have the best 
authority for asserting, that on an average of thirty 
Years, preceduig the year M^l, the executions in that 
division of the island did not amount to six annually ; 
and one quarter-sessions foi- the town of Manchester 
only, has sen,, according to .Mr. Heme, more felons to 
the plantations, than all the judges of Scotland usually 
do in the space of a year.+ It might appear invidious 
to nti-nipt a calculation of the many thousand indi- 
viduals in .Manchester and its viciniiy who can neither 
read nor write. A majority of those who can sufter 
the punishment of death for their crimes in every \ 
of England are, it is believed, 
of ignorance. 



autry of any part of the island. 

Note B. Seep. 3. 



It has been supposed that Scotland is less populous 
and less improved on account of this emigration ; but 
such conclusions are doubtful, if not wholly fallacious. 
The principle of population acts in no country to ihe 
full extent of its power: marriage is every where le- 
tarded beyond the period pointed out by nature, by the 
dilficulty of supporting a family ; and this ubsi <cle is 
greatest in long-settled communities. The emigraiimi 
of a part of a people facilitates the marriage of the rest, 
by producing a relative increase in the means of snlv 
sistence. The arguments of Adam Smith, for a tree 
export of corn, are [jerhaps applicable with lessexce|>- 
tion to the free export of projjle. The more certain the 
vent, the greater the cultivaiion of the soil. This suli- 
ject has been well investieiUed by Sir James Stewart, 
whose principles have bfon expanded and further 
illustrated in a late truly philosophical Essay on Pujju- 
latiun. Ill fact, Scotland has increased in the number 
of its inhabitant^ in the last forty years, as the Statis- 
tics of Sir John Sinclair clearly prove, hut not in iha 
ratio that some had supposed. The extent of the enik- 
gratioii of the Scots may be calculated with some de- 
gree of coiitiilence from the proportionate iiumi)er of 
the two sexes in Scotland ; a point that may be esia- 
blished pretty exactly by an examination of the inval.i- 
able Statistics already mentioned. If we suppose thai 
mberof male and female natives of 



there is aneq 
miserable state i Scotland, aVive somewheie or other, the excess by 
which the females exceed the males in thitir own coun- 
try may be considered to be equal to the number of 
There .s now a legal provision for parochial schools, | Scotchmen living out of Scotland. But though the 
or rather for a school in each of the different townships I males born in Scotland be admi'ted to be as .3 to r^, 
Into which the country is divided, in sever. 1 of the i and though some of the females emigrate as well aa the 
northern states of North America. They are, how- | males, this mode of calcul.iting would probably make 
ever, of recent origin there, excepting in New England, j the number of expatriated Scotchmen, at any one time 
where they were established in ihe last century, pro- alive, greater than the truth. The unhealthy climate* 
in Scotland, and by the ' ■ 



baljly about the same time as 
same religious sect. In the Irotestant Cantons of 
Switzerland, the peasantry have the advantage of 
similar schools, though established and endowed in a 
different manner. This is also the case in certain dis- 
tricts in England, particularly, in ihe northern parts of 
Yorkshire and of Lancashire, and in the counties of 
Westmoreland and Cumberland. 

A law, providing for the instruction of the poor, was 
passed by the Parliament of Ireland ; but the fund was 
diverted from its purpose, and the measure wzis entire- 
ly frustrated. Pro/i Pudor. 

The similarity of character between the S-wiss and 
the Scotch, and between the Scotch and the people of 
New Endand, can scarcely be overlooked. That it 
■rises in a gi-eat measure from the similarity of their in- 
Blitutiona for insirMction, cannot be questioned. It is 
no doubt increased by physical euuses. With a su- 
perior degree of instruction, each of these nations poi- 

* Political Works of Andrew Fletcher, octavo Lon- 
don, 737, 144. 

1 Home's Commentaries oa the Laws of Scotland, 
iW£;ud«t.io«, /». ^. 



which they emigrate, the hazardous 



I vices 



hich so many of them engage, render the mean life of 
those who leave Scotland (to sjieak in the language of 
calculators) not perhaps of half the value of the mean 
Ufe of those who i 



NoteC. See p. 6. 

In the punishment of this offence the Church employ- 
ed formerly the arm of the civil power. During the 
reign of ..'a'mes the Vltli. (James the t irst of England.) 
criminal connexion between unmarried persons wai 
made the subject of a particular statute, {See Hume't 
Commentaries omhe Laws of ScolUind, Vol.Vi. p. 
JO.'.) which, from its rigour, was never much enforced,' 
and which has long fallen into disuse. When in the 
middle of the last century, the Puritans succeeded in 
the overthrow of the monarchy in both divisions of the 
island, lornicatiou was a crime against which they di- 
rected their utmost zeal. It was made punishat.ia 
with death in the second instance, (See Blackstone. 6. 
iv. chnp. i. No. 11.) Happily this .raijguinaiy slaiut* 
wab swept awav.ilongwith the other ads of the Com. 
munwealth, on the restoration nf harles II. to whoB« 
temper and manners it must htive hem jiciiliarlT nb- 
horie-it. And aUer the Kevoluiioii. when several sal- 
utary actn p^mst-d dm ins ihr Hiispi-nsioii of the inoiiar 
cky, were rc-Kiia'.iert by ihe SiottisU ■ arliameiit, piu*- 



APPENDIX, No. 2. 



157 



liculariT that for the establishment of parish-schools, 
the slaii'rit; punishing fornication with rleath, was suffer- 
ed to s!eop in tlie grave of the stern fanatics who had 
pveu it birth. 

Note D. Seep. 6. 

The legitimation of children, by subsequent marriage 
became tlie Roman law under the Christian emperors. 
It was the cannon law of modern Euroije, and has been 
established in Scotland from a very remote period. 
Thus a cliild born a baslavd if his parents afterwards 
irarry, enjoys all the privileges of seniority over his 
brotliers aflervvaras born in wedlock. In the Parlia- 
ment of Merton. in the reign of Henry HI. the English 
clergy made a vigorous attempt to introduce this arti- 
cle into tlie law of England, and ii was on this occasion 
thai I he Barons made the noted answer, since so often 
ajipeuled to; Quod nolunt le^es Anglia mutare ; 
guct hue usque usilatoe sunt approliatos. With regard 
to what colisUlutes a marriage, the law of .Scotland, uj 
explained. /J. 6. differs from the Roman law, which re- 
quired the ceremony to be performed in facie ecclesia. 



No. II. - 

Note A. See p. 12. 

It may interest some persons to peruse the first po- 
etical production of our Bard, and it is therefore ex- 
tracted from a kind of common place book, which he 
ieeins to have begun in his twentieth year ; and which 
ne entitled, " Observations Hints, Sondes, Scraps of 
Poeii-y, S,-c. by Robert Bumess, a man who had little 
art in making money, and still less in keeping it ; but 
Was however, a man of some sense, a great deal of 
Jumesty and unbounded good will to every creature, ra- 
tional or irrational. As he was but little indebted to a 
•iholastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, his per- 
formances must be strongly tinctured with his uupolish- 
eil nistic way of life; but as I believe '.hey arc really 
Ills own, it may be some eniertainment .o a curious ob- 
server of human nature, to see how a ploughman thinks 
a. 1(1 feels under the pressure of love, ambition, anxiety, 
^rief, with the like cares and passions, which however 
diversitied hy the modes and manners of life, operate 
pretty much alike, I believe, in all the species." 

" Pleasing when youth is long expired to trace, 
The forms our pencil or our pen design'd. 

Such was '■ur youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of the youthful mind." 

Shenstone. 

This MS. book, to which our poet prefixed tliis ac 
eciint of himself, aiid of his intention in preparing it, 
eontahis several of his earlier poems, some as they 
Were printed, and others in their embryo state. The I 
•OQg alluded to is that begiuiiing, 

O once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 
Ay, and I love her still, 

.See PofiTTW,/). 79. 

It must he confessed that this song gives co indica- 
tion ol the future genius of Burns ; hut he himself 
»eeuis to have been fond of it, probably from the recol- 
Uciiuns it excited. 

Note B, See p. 15. 

At the time that our poet took the resolution of be- 
coming wise, he procured a little book of blank paper, 
with the purpose (expressed en the first page) of mak- 
ing farming memorandums upon it. These farming 
memorandums are curious enough ; many of them 
have beeuwritten with a pencil, and are now obliterat- 
til, oral least illegible. A considerable number are 
however legible, and a specimen may gratify the rea- 
der, li must be premised, that the poet kept the hook 
L.v him several years — that he wrote upon it, here and 
Uiere, with -Me utmost trregularit.y, &ud (bat ou the 



same page are notations very (li»taul from each 
as to time and place. 



EXTEMPORE. April,n3!U 

O why the deuce should I repine, 
And be an ill foreboder ; 

See 



Poema, p. 1G3 



FRAGMENT. Ton*— « Donald Blue.' 

leave novels, ye Mauchline oeUes, 
Ye're safer at your spuming wheel ; 

iSea Poemt, p. 141, 



For he's far aboon Dunkel the night 
Maun whith the stick and a' that. 

Mem. To get for Mr. Johnson these two songs : 
Molly, Molly, my dear honey.' — ' T/ie cock and I 
en, the deer in Iier den,' Sfc. 



Ah I Claris.' Sir Peter Halket, of Pitferran, the au- 
thor.— i^Toto, he married her— the heiress of Mtferran. 

Colonel George Crawford, the author of jDou>n ths 
our^i Davy. 

Pinky-house, by J. Mitchell. 

My apron Deary I and Amynta, by Sir G. Elliot. 

Willie was a wanton Wa^, was made on WaUcln 
shaw, of Walkinshaw, near Paisley. 

Iloe na a laddie hut ane, Mr. C'l'unzee. 

The b innie wee thing— hta.\i\.\i\x\—Lundif?a ZJreowj— 
very beautiful. 

He tdl'l and she till'! — assez bien. 

Armstrong's Farewell — fine. 

The author of the Highland Q.ueen was a Mr. M'» 
Iver, Purser of the Solboy. 

Fife an' a' the land about it, R . Furgnsson. 

The author of The bush aboon Tiaquair, was a Dr. 
Stewart. 

Pnlwart on the Green, composed by Captain John 
Drummond M'G rigor of Bochaldie. 

Msm. To inquire if Mrs. Cochburn was the autbor 
of I/iave seen the smiling, S(c, 



The above may serve as a specimen. .All the not* 
on farming are obliterated. 

NoteC, See page* SO, dl. 

Rules and Regulations to be observed in the Bachtla 
Club. 

1st. The club shall meet at Tarbolton every fourt 
Monday night, when a question on any subject sfaal 
be proposed, disputed points of religion, only excepted, 
in the manner hereafter directed; which question it 
to be debated in the club, each member taking wha/' 
ever side he thinks proper. 

2d. When the chibis met, the president, or, he fail- 
ing, some one of the members, till he come, shall tak« 
his seat ; then the other members shall seat them 
selves ; thcvse who are for one side ot the question. o« 
the president's Hght hand ; and those who are for thi 
other side, on his left ; which of them shall have thi 
right hand IS t-„ ^ 'etermined by the president. Th« 
president and tOi.'. ui the members being present, shall 
have power to transact any ordinary part of the socie- 
ty's business. 

3d. The club met and seated, the president shall 
read the question out of the club's book of records, 
(which book is always to be kept by the presidejit.; 
then the two members nearest the presiJen; shall cast 
luts who of them sb&li speak first, and according as 



.58 



APPENDIX, JNo. 2. 



the lot shall deteritlne, the member nearest the pre- 
■iileiit on that side shall deliver his opinion, and the 
member nearest on the other side shall reply to him : 
then the second mernlier on ihe side that spoke first ; 
then the second member on the side that spoke second, 
and 60 on to the end of the company : l.ut if tliere be 
fewer members ou the one side tlian the other, when all 
the members of the least side have spoken according to 
their places, any of them, as ihey please among them- 
eelves, inay reply to the remaining members ol the op- 
posite side: when both sides have spoken, the president 
shall give his opinion, after which they may go over it 
a second or more times, and so continue the question. 

4th. The club shall then proceed to the choice of a 
question for the subject of next night's meeting. The 
president shall first propose one. and any other mem 
ber who chooses may propose more question* ; and 
whatever one of them is most agreeable to the majo- 
rity of members, shall be the subject of debate next 
■ Vib-nighl. 

5th. The club shall, lastly, elect a new president fot 
the next meeting : the president shall first name one, 
Jien any of the club may name another, and whoever 
of them has the majority of votes shall be duly elected ; 
allowing the president the first vote, and the casting 
vole upon a par, but none other. Then after a general 
toast to mistresses of the club, they shall dismiss. 

6th. There shall be no private conversation carried 
on during the time of debate, nor shall any member In- 
tel ru|it anolhei while he is speaking, under the penalt 
of a reprnnand from the president for the first fault, 
cloi-bling his share of the reckoning for the second, 
trebling it for the third, and so on in p.-oportion for every 
other fault, provided always, however, that any mem- 
ber may s|jeak at any time after leave asked, and given 
by the president. Ml swearing and profane language, 
«nd particularly all obscene and indecent conversa- 
tion, is strictly prohibited, under the same penalty as 
afoiesaid in the first clause of this article. 

7th. No member, on any pretence whatever, shall 
mention any of the club's affairs to any other persnn 
but a brother member, under the pain of being exclud- 
ed . and particularly if any member shall reveal any 
of ihe speeches or aft'airs of the club, with a view to 
ridicule or laugh at any of the rest of the members, he 
•hall be forever excommunicated from the society . 
and the rest of the members are desired, as much as 
0o»sible, to avoid, and have uo communicatiua with 
him as a ftietid or comrade. 

8th. Every member shall attend at the meetings with- 
&<it he can give a proper excuse for not attending ; 
md it isdesiied that every one who cannot attend, 
will send his excuse with some other member ; and he 
•vho shall be absent three meetings without sending 
such excuse, Khali be summoned to the club-nighl. 
when if he tail to appear, or seua an excuse ne shall oe 
excluded. 

9th. The club tha). not consist of more than sixteen 
members, all bachelors belonging to the parish of Tar- 
bolton: except a brother member marry, and iji thai case 
be may be continued, if the majority of the club think 
proper. No person shall be admitted a member of this 
society, without the unanimous consent of the club ; 
and any member may withdraw from the chib altoge- 
ther, by giving a notice to the president in writing of 
bis departure. 

lOth. Rvery man proper for a member of this society, 
linist have a frank, honest, open heart ; above any 
thing dirty or mean ; and must be a profcst lover of 
one or more of the female sex. No haughty, self-con- 
Ceited person, who looks upon himself as superior to 
the rest of the club, and especially no mean-spirited, 
Worldly mortal, whose only will is to heap up monev, 
•hall U|ioii any pretence whatever be admitted. In 
short, the proper person for this society is, a cheerful, 
bouest hearted lad, who, if he has a friend that is 
irua, ami a miiusss ikai x kind^ aud as much wealth 



as genteelly to make both enui meet— w lust •• I 
as this world can make him . 



NoUT). See p. 84. 

A great number of manuscript poems were fonnd 
among tlie papers of Kurns. addressed to him ty ad- 
mirers of his genius, from different parts of liri'taiH, 
as well as from Ireland and America. Among these 
was a poetical epistle from Mr. Telfoid, of ishrews- 
bury, of superor merit. It is written in the dialect 
of .■-cotland, (of which country Mr. Telford is a native,) 
and in the versification generally employed by our poet 
himself. Its object is to recommend to him other sub- 
ject of a serious nature, similar to that of the Co>ier'» 
Sa urday Ni-h ; and the reader will find thit the 
advice is happily enforced by example. It would hare 
given the editor pleasure to have iiiserte>) the whole of 
this poem, which he hopes will one day see the light : 
he is happy to nave obtained, in the mean time, his 
friend Mr. Telford's permission to insert the foUowinc 
extracU : 



Pursue, O Burns ! thy happy style 
" Those manner-painting strains," that whlla 
They bear me northward mony a mile, 

Recall the days. 
When lender joys, with pleasing smile, 
Bless'd my yoimg ways. 

I see my fond companions rise, 
I join the happy village joys, 
I see our green hills touch the skies. 

Mid through the woods. 
I hear the river's rushing noise, 

Us roaring floods.* 

No distant Swiss with warmer glow, 
E'er heard his native music flow, 
Nor could his wishes stronger grow, 

'I ban siiU nave mine, 
When up this ancient mouiiii I go, 

With songs of thine. 

O happy Bard I thy gen'rous flame 
Was given to raise thy country's lame : 
For this thy charming niiinbers cume— 

Thy matchless lays ; 
Then sing, and save her virtuous name, 

To latest days. 

But mony a theme awaits thy muse. 
Fine as thy Cotter's sacred views, 
Then in such verse thy sou! infuse, 

With holy air ; 
And sing the course the pious chouse, 

With all thy care. 

How with religious awe impressed, 
They open lay the guileless breast, 
And youth and age with fears distress'd, 

A\\ due prepare. 
The symbols of eternal rest 

Devout to share.^ 

How down ilk lang withdrawing hill, 

Successive crowds the valleys fill : 

While pure religious converse still 

Hegniles the way, 

And gives a cas' to youthful will, 

To suit the day. 

* The banks of Esk, in Dumfries-shire, are here a» 
luded to. 

t A beautiful little mount, which stands ImmediaU 
ly before, or rather forms a part of •ShrewsbutT' castle, 
a seal of Sir William Pulleuey, baronet. 

I The Sacrament, generally adminiitered la vbe 
country pariahM of Scotland lu Uis open air. K 



APPENDIX, No. 3. 



159 



How iilaced alotig the ancreu liuaid, 
riieir Uuary pastors louks adored, -- 
H;» voice with peace and blessing stored, 

.Seut from above , 
Aad faith, and hope, and joy afibrd, 

Aud bouiialess luve. 

O'er lliis. with warm seraphic glow, 
Celestial beings, pleased bow ; 
4iid whisper'd hear the holy vow, 

'Mid grateful tears ; 
And mark amid such scenes below. 
Their future peers. 



O mark the awful solemn scene !* 
A'heii hoary winter clothes the plain, 
Aluug the snowy hills is seen 

Approaching slow ; 
la muurniiig weeds, the village train, 
in silent wo. 

Some much respected brother's bier 
(Hy turns the pious task they share) 
With heavy hearts they forward bear 

Along the path, 
Where nei'bours saw in dusky air,t 

The light of death. 

And when they pass the rocky how. 
Where binwood Dushes o'er them flow, 
And move around the rising knowe, 

Wiiere far away 
The kirk-yard trees are seen to grow. 

By th' water brae. 

Assembled round the narrow grave, 
While o'er them wintery tempests rave, 
111 the cold wind their gray locks wave, 

As low they lay 
rbeir brother's body 'mougst the lave 

Of parent clay. 

Expressive looks from each declare 
The griefs within, their bosoms bear ; 
One holy bow devout they share, 

Then home return, 
And think o'er all the virtues fair 

Of him they mourn. 



Say how by early lessons taught, 
(Truth's pleasing air is willing caught) 
Congenial to th' untainted thought. 
The shepherd boy. 
Who teadu his flocks on lonely height, 
Feels holy joy. 

Is aught on earth so lovely known, 
On sabbath morn and far alone. 
His guileiesa soul all naked shown 
Before his Uod — 
Such pray'rs must welcome reach the throne, 
And bless'd abode. 

O telll with what a heart felt joy, 
The parent eyes the virtuous boy ; 
And all bis constant, kind employ. 

Is how to give 
The best of lear he can enjoy. 

As means to live. 

The parish-school, its curious site, 
The master who can clear indite, 
And lead him on to count and write, 

Demand thy care ; 
Nor paM the ploughman's school at night 
Without a share. 

• A Scotch funeraL E. 

t This alludes to a superstition prevalent in Rskdale, 
nd Annaitdale, that a light precedes in the night every 
dneral, marking the precise path it is to pass. £. 



Nor yet the tenty curious lad. 
Who e'er the ingle hings his head. 
And begs of nei'bours books to read ' 

From hence arise 
Thy country's sons, who far are spread, 

Bailh bauld and wise. 



The Imnnie lasses, as they spin, 
Perhaps with Allan's sangs begin, 
How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing rln 

Through flowery hows ; 
Where Shepherd lads their sweethearts ' 

With earnest vows. 

Or may be. Burns, thy thrillinj page 
May a' their virtuous thoughts engage, 
While playful youth and placid age 

In concert join. 
To bless the bard, who. gay ot sage, 

Improves the mind. 



Long may their harmless, simple ways, 
Nature's own pure emotions raise ; 
May still the dear romantic blaze 

Of purest Inve. 
Their bosoms warm to latest days. 

And ay improve. 

May still each fond attachment glow. 
O'er woods o'er streams, o'er hills of snow. 
May rugged rocks still dearer grow : 

And may their souls 
Even love the warlock glens which through 

The tempest howls. 

To eternize such themes as these, 
And all their happy manners seize, 
Will every vir'.uous bosom please ; 

-And high in fame 
To future times will justly raise 

Thy patriot name. 

While all the venal tribes decay, 
That bask in flattery's flaunting ray— 
The noisome vermin of a day, 

Thy works shall gain 
t)'er every mind a boundless sway, 

A lasting reign. 

When winter binds the harden'd plains, 
Around evtch hearth, the hoary swains 
Still teach the rising youth thy strains 

And anxious say. 

Our blessing with our sous remains. 

And Burns's Lay I 



(First inserted in the Second Edition.) 

The editor has particular pleasure in presenting ta 
the public the following leitei, to the due unders'.anu- 
ing of which a few previous observations are ne- 
cessary. 

The Biographer of Burns was naturally desirous 
of hearing the opinon of the friend and brother of the 
poet, on the manner in which he had executed his 
task, before a second edition should be committed to 
the press. He had the satisfaction of receiving this 
opinion, in a letter dated the 2-ith of August, approv- 
ing of the Life in very obliging terms, and otiering 
one or two trivial corrections as to names and dates 
chiefly, which are made hi this edition. One or two 
observations were oftered of a different kind. In the 
3l9th page of the first volume, first edition, a quota- 
tion is made from the pastoral song. Ettrick Banka, 
and an explanation given of the phrase " mony feck," 
which occurs in this quotation. Supposing the sense 
to be complete after " mony," the editor had consider- 
ed " feek" a rustick oath which confirmed the asser* 
tion. The words were therefore separated by a com 



60 



APPENDIX, No. 3. 



ma. Mr. Burns conrHered this an error. " Feck," 
ne presumes, is tlie .-icollish woi d fur quaniiiy, and 
• niony feck," to mean simply, very many. 'Ihe 
/■ editor in yield]::? to this authority, expressed some 
hesiiatioa, and hinted that the phrase ''mony fecif" 
was, ia burn's sense, a pleonasm or barbarism which 
deforin?d this beautiful song.' liis reply to this 
observation makes the first clause of the t'uUowing 
iHiter. 

In the same communication he informed me. that the 
Mirror and the Lounger were proposed by him to the 
(■uiiversation Club of Mauchliiic, and that he lad 
tlioughis of giving rae his sentiments on the remarks 1 
had made respecting the fitness of such works fur such 
injcieiies. Ihe observations of such a man on such a 
sj'iiect, the Editor conceived, would be received with 
pani:"iar interest by the public : and, liavmg pressed 
earnesdy fur them, they will be found in the following 
letter. Of the value of this communication, delicacy 
towards his very respectable correspondent prevents 
him from expressing his opinion. '1 he original letter 
'a in the hands of Messrs. Oaddell and Davies. 

Dinning, Dumfriesshire, 2ith Oct. 1800. 

DEAR SIR, 

Yours of the Hth inst. came to my hand yesterduv, 
•nd I sit down this afternoon to write you in return : 
but when 1 shall be able to finish all 1 wish to say to 
you, I cannot tell. 1 am sorry your conviction is not 
complete respecting feck. 'I'here is no doubt, that if 
you take two Knglish words which appear synony- 
mous to mont/ feck, and juilge by the rules of Knglish 
construction, it will appear a barbarism. 1 believe if 
you take this mode of tr.mslating from any language, 
the effect will frequently be the same. But if you take 
the expression mony feck to have, as I have stated it, 
the same meaning with tlie English expression rery 
majiij, (and such license every^ translator must be al- 
lowed, especially when he translates from a simiile 
dialect which has never been subjected to rule, and 
where the precise meaning of words is of consequence 
not minutely attended to.) it will be well enough. ( Ine 
'.hing 1 am certain of, that ours is the sense universal- 
ly understood in the country ; and I believe no Scots- 
man, who has lived contented at home, pleased with 
the simple manners, the simple melodies, and the sim- 
ijle dialect of his native country, unvitinted by foreign 
intercourse, " whose soul proud science never taught 
10 stray," ever discovered barbarism in the song nf 
Eurick Bankn. 

The story you have heard of the gable of my father's 
house falling down, is simply as follows :t--VVhen niy 
father built his '■ cl.iy biggin," he put in two stone- 
Jumbs. as they are called, and a lintel, carrying up a 
chimney in his clay gable. 'The consequence was. that 
as the gable subsided, the jambs, remaining firm, 
threw it off its centre ; and, one very .'Stormy mornine, 
when my brother was nine or ten days old, a little 
before daylight a part of the gable fell out. and the rest 
appeared so sh.t'ered, that my mother, with the young 
poet, had to be earned ihrougli the storm to a neigh- 
bours house, where they remained a week till their 
own dwelling was adjusted. Thai you may not think 
loo meaidy of this house, or my I'aiher's laste in build- 
ing, by supposing the poet's description ii. Titt 'isi <n 
(which is entirely a fancy picture) applicable to it, 
allow me to take notice to you, that the house consist- 
ed of a kitchen in out end, and a room in the other, 
with a fire place and chimney . that my fathe- had 
constructed a concealed bed in the kitchen, with a 

• The correction made by Gilbert Burns lias also 
been suggested by a writer in the .Monthly Magazine, 
under the signature of Albiin ; who, for taking this 
trouble, and for mentioning the author of tha poem of 
Donnocht-liead deserves the Editor's thanks, 

• The Editor had heard a report that the poet was 
bom in the midst of a storm which blew down a part | 
•I the house. E 



small closet at the end, of the same maJeriah with • 
house ; and, when altogether cast over, untsiile an<^ in, 
with lime, it had a neat comfortable appearance, such 
as no family of the same rank, in the presen'. improved 
style of living, would think themselves iU-iod^ed in, 
I wish likewise to lake notice, in passing, that although 
the ' Colter." in the Saturday Night, is an exact copy 
of my father in his manners, his family-tlevolion, and 
exhortations, yet the other parts of the description do 
not apply to our family. None of cs were ever " at 
service out amaug the neebors roun." Instead of our 
depositing our " sairwon penny fee" with our panmls, 
my father laboured hard, and lived with the most ri- 
gid economy, that he might be able to keep his children 
at home, thereby having an opportunity of watching 
the progress of our young minds and forming in them 
earlier habits of piety and virtue; and from this mo- 
tive alone did he engage in farming, the source of all 
his difficulties and distresses. 

When I threatened you in my last with a long letter 
on the subject of the books 1 recommended to the 
iMauchline club, and the effects of refiuemenl of taste 
on the labouring classes of men, 1 meant merely, that 
1 wished to write you on that subject with a view that, 
in some future communication to the public, you might 
take up the subject more at large ; that, by means of 
your happy manner of writing, the attention of people 
of power and influence might be fixed on it. I had lit- 
t.'e expectalion, however, that I should uvei come my 
indolence; and the difficulty of arranging my thoughts 
so far as to put my threai in execution ; till some time 
ago, before 1 had 'finished my harvest, having a call 
from .Mr. Ewart,* with a message from you, pressing 
me to the performance of this task, 1 thought myself no 
longer at liberty to decline it, and resolved to set about 
it with my first leisure. I will now, therefore, endea- 
vour to lay before you what has occurred to my mind, 
on a subject where people capable of observation ami 
of placing their remarks in a proper point of view, 
have seldom an opportunity of making their remarks 
on real life. In doing this, 1 may perhaps be led some- 
times to write more in the manner of a person commu- 
iiicaling information to you which you did noi know 
before, and at other times more in the style of egotism, 
than I would choose to do to any person, ia whose can- 
dour, and even personal good will, I liad less confi- 
dence. 

There are two several lines of study that open to 
every man as he enters life: the one, the general sci- 
ence of life, of duty, and of happiness ; the other, tli« 
particular arts of his employir.ent or situation in so- 
ciety, and the several branches of knowledge there 
with connected. This last is certainly mdispeiuable, 
as nothing can be more disgraceful than'' ignorance in 
the way of one's own profession ; and whatever a 
man's speculative knowledge may be, if he is ill-in- 
formed there, he can neither be a useful nor a respect- 
able member of society. It is nevertheless true, ilia.1 
" the proper study of mankind is man :" to consider 
what duties are incumbent on him as a rational ciea- 
ture, and a member of society ; how he may increase 
or secure his happiness: and how he may prevent or 
soften the many miseries incident to human life. I 
think the pursuit of happpiness is too frequently con- 
fined to the endeavour after the acquisition of wealth. 
I do not wish to be considered as an idle declaimer 
against riches, which, after all that can be said again*' 
them, will still be considered by rnen of common s^nse 
as objects of importance ; and poverty will be lelt at 
a sore evil, after all the fine things that can be said of 
its advantages ; on the contrary l am of opinion, tha* 
a gre4t proportion of the miseries of life arise from 
the want of economy, and a prudent attention to mo- 
ney, or the ill-directed or intemperate pursuit of it. 
uut however valuable riches may be as the means c( 
comfort, independence, and the pleasure of doing good 
to others, yet 1 am of opinion, that they may be, and 
frequently are. purchased at too great a cost, and ihal 
saci-ifices are made in the pursuit, which the acquisi- 
tion cannot compensate. 1 remember hearing my 

* The Editor's fne d, Mr, PeUr Ewart, of .Mancbe» 



APPENDIX, No. 3. 



ir,i 



worthy teacher, Mr. Mnrrloch relate an anecdote to 
II. V lather, wliiih I think sets this mailer in a strong 
liiTht, rtnil perhajis was the origin, or at least lencleii lo 
pi-nriiuie this way of thinkinein me. When Mr. Miir- 
riofli lefl .'Vlloway, he weiii lo teach and reside in the 
family of an opuleni farmer who had a nuniOer of sons. 
/ neiglilioor coining on a visit, in tlie course of conver- 
sation, asked the father how he meant lo dispose of his 
sons, 'I'lie father replied tliat he had nol determined. 
'I he visitor said, that were he in liis place he would 
give them all good eilucation and send them abroad, 
■without (perhaps) having a precise idea where. The 
father objected, that many young men lost their health 
in foreign countries, and many their lives. True, re- 
plied the visitor, but as you have a uumber of sons, it 
will be strange if some cue of them does not live and 
make a fortune. 

Let any person who has the feelings of a father, 
comment on this story i but though few will avow, 
evtn to themselves, that such views govern their con- 
duct, yet do we not daily see people shipping off their 
sons, (and who would do so by their daughters also, 
if there were any demand for them,) that they may be 
rich or perish I 

The education of the lower classes is seldom con- 
sidei ed in any other point of view than as the means 
of raising them from that station to which they were 
boi II, and of making a fortune. 1 am ignorant of the 
mysteries of the art of acquiring a fortune without 
any thing to begin with . and caiuiot calculate, with 
any degree of exactness, the difficulties to be surmount- 
ed, the morlilications lo be sutl'ered, and the degrada- 
tion of character to be submitted to, in lending one's 
self to be the minister of other people's vices or in the 
jviraclice of lapine, fraud, oppression, or dissimulation, 
;ii the progress, but eveu when the wished for end is 
attained, it may be questioned whether happiness be 
much increased by ihe change. When I have seen a 
fortunate adventurer of the lower ranks of life return- 
ed from the Kast or West Indies, with all the kau'ein 
3f a vulgar mind accustomed to be served by slaves, 
ansuming a character which, from the early habits of 
life, he is ill-fitted to support, displaying magnificence 
which raises the envy of some, and the contempt of 
others, claiming an equality with the great, which 
they are unwilling to allow . inly pining at the prece- 
dence of the hereditary gentry ; maddened by the po- 
lished insolence of some of the unworthy part of them : 
•ecking pleasure in the society of men who can conde- 
scend to flatter him, and liste'n to his absurdity for the 
sake of a good dinner and good wine ; I caniiut avoid 
concluding, that his brother, or companion, who, by a 
diligent application to the labours of agriculture, or 
some useful mechanic employment, and the careful 
Kushanding of his gains has acquired a competence in 
his station, is a much hapjiier, and, in the eye of a 
person who can take an ejdarged view of mankind, a 
much more respectable man. 

Kut the votaries, of wealth may be considered as a 
great number of candidates striving for a few prizes : 
and whatever addition the successful may make to 
their pleasure or happiness, the disappointed will al- 
ways have more to suffer, I am afraid, than those who 
aiiide contented in the station lo which they were born. 
I wish, therefore, the education of the lower 
classes to be promoted and directed to their improve- 
ment as men, as the means of increasing theii virtue. 
and opening to them new and dignified sources of 
pleasure and happiness. 1 have heard some people 
object to the "ducation of the lower classes of men. as 
rendering them less useful, by abstracting them from 
their prope'r business others, as lending to make 
them saucy to their superiors, impatient of their con- 
dition, and turbulent subjects ; while you, with more 
humanity, have your fears alarmed, lest the deUcacy 
of mind, induced by that sort of education and read- 
ing I recommend, should render the evils of their situ- 
ation insupportable to them. I wish to examine the 
Validity of each of these objections, beginning with 
the one' you have mentioned. 

I do not mean to controvert your criticism of my 
favourite books, the Mirror and Lounger, although I 



understand there are people who think themselves 

judges, who do nol agree with you. The ncquisiaoii 
of knowledge, except what is connected with hi. nan 
life and conduct, or the particular business of iiis eiii- 
ploymeiu, does not appear to me lo be the fittest pur- 
suit for a peasant. 1 would say with the poet, 

" How empty learning, and how vain is art 

Save when it guides the Hfe, and mends the heart." 

There seems to be a considerable latitude in the use 
of the word taste. I understand it lo be the percep- 
tion ami relish of beauty, order, or any thing, the coii- 
temnlation o( which gives pleasure and delight to 
the mind. 1 gupiose it is in this sense you wish it to 
be understood, if lam right, the taste which these 
books are calculated to cultivale, (besides the taste 
for fine writing, which many of the papers tend to im- 
prove and to gratify.) is what is proper, consistent 
and becoming in human characiei and conduct, as al- 
most every paper relates to these subjects. 

I am sorry I have not these books by me. that I 
might point out some instances. I remember two one 
the beautiful story of I, a Roch, where, beside the 
pleasure one derives from a beautiful simple slory, 
told in M'Kenzie's happiest manner, the mind is led 
to taste with heartfelt rapture, the consolation' to be 
derived in deep affliction, from habitual devotion and 
trust in Almighty God. The other, the story of gen- 
eral W , when the reader is led to have a liigh 

relish for that firmness of mind which disregards ap- 
pearances, the common forms and vanities of life, for 
the sake of doing justice iu a case which was out of 
the reach of human laws. 

Allow me then to remark, that if the morality of 
these books is subordinate to the cultivation of taste ; 
that taste, that refinement of mind and delicacy of 
sentiment which they are intended to give, are the 
strongest guard and surest foundation of morality and 
v>tue.— Other moralists guard, as it were, the over- 
act : these papers, by exalting duty into seutiniei)!, 
are calculated to make every deviation from rectitudd 
and propriety of conduct, painful to the mind, 

" Whose temper'd powers, 
Refine at length, and every passion wears, 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mein." 

T readily grant you, that the refinement of mind 
which I contend for, increases our sensibility to the 
evils of life ! but what station of life is without its evils ! 
rhere seems to be no such thing as perfect happiness 
in this world, and we must balance the pleasure and 
the pain which we derive from taste, before we can 
properly appreciate it in the case before us. I appre- 
hend that on a minute examination it will appear, thai 
the evils pecuhar to the lower ranks of life, derive their 
power to wound us, more from the suggestions of false 
pride, and " contagion of luxury, weak and vile," 
than the refinement of our taste. It was a favourite 
remark of my brother's, that there was no part of the 
constitution of our nature, to which we were more 
inrlebted, than that by which " Cusom mi/cfs Oini<;a 
familiar an i easy" {a. copy Mr. Murdoch used to set 
us to write.) and there is little labour which custom 
will not make easy to a man in health, if he is not 
ashamed of his employment, or does not begin to 
compare his situation with those he may see going 
about at their ease. 

But the man of enlarged mind feels the respect due 
to him as a man ; he has learned that no employment 
is dishonourable in itself; that while he performs 
aright the duties of that station in which Hod has 
placed him, he is as great as a king in the eyes of Him 
whom he is principally desirous to please for the man 
of taste, who is constantly obliged lo labour, must of 
necessity be religious. If you teach him only to rea- 
son, you may make him an atheist, a demagogue or 
any vile thing ; but if you teach him to feci, his feel- 
ings can only find their pr.oper and natural relief in de- 
votion and rehgious resignati in. He knows that those 
people who are to appe'*rai«'-e « jac , a e u-'l vithoui 



162 



APPENDIX, No. 3. 



their thart of evils, and that even toil itself is not des- 
titute of adyuntagea. He listens to the words of his fa- 
vourite poet: 

" O mortal man that livest here by toil, 

Cease torepme, and grudge thy hard estate 1 
That lilte an emmet thou must ever moil, 

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 

Although sometimes it makes tliee weep and wail. 
And curse tliy star, and early drudge, and late ; 

Withouten that would come an heavier bale, 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale 1" 

And, while he repeats the words, the grateful recol- 
tion comes across his mind, how oflen has he derived 
ineffable jileasure from the sweet song of " Nature's 
darling child." 1 can say, from my own experience, 
that there is no sort of farm-labour inconsistent with 
the most refined and pleusurable state of the mind 
that 1 am acquainted with, thrashing alone excepted. 
That, indeed, I have always considered as insupporta- 
ble drudgery, and think the ingenious mechanic who 
invented the threshing machine, ought to have a statue 
among the benefactors of his country, and should be 
placed in the niche next to the person who introduced 
the culture of potatoes into this island. 

Perhaps the thing of most importance in the educa- 
tion of the common people is, to prevent the intrusion 
of artificial wants. I bless the memory of my woi thy 
father for almost every thing in the dispositions of my 
mir.d, and my habits of life, which I can approve of : 
and for none more than the pains he took to impress 
my mind with the sentiment, that nothing was moie 
unworthy the character of a man. tl.an that his happi- 
ness should in the least depend on what he should eat 
ordiink. So early did he impress my mind wiih this, 
that ttlihough 1 was as fond of swealmeats as children 
generally are, vet I seldom laid out any of the half- 
pence which relations or neigiibsurs gave me at fairs, 
ill the purchase of them ; and if I did every mouthful 
I swallowed was accompanied w uh shame and re 
morse ; and to this hour, I never indulge in the use of 
my dehcacy, hut 1 feel a consideiable degree of self- 
•eproach and alarm for the degradation of the human 
tharacier. Such a habit of thinking I consider as of 
great consequence, both to the virtue and happiness 
of men in the lower ranks of life.— .And thus. Sir, I 
am of opinion, that if their minds are early impressed 
with a sense of the dignity of man. as such; with the 
lo7e of inilependence and of industry, economy and 
temjierance, as the most obvious means of making 
ihemselvcs independent, and the virtues most becom- 
ing the'r situation, and necessary to their happiness ; 
men in the lower ranks of life may partake of the 
plea.snres to be derived from the perusal of books cal- 
culated to improve the mind and and refine the taite, 
without any danger of becoming more unhappy in their 
situation or discontented with it. Nor do I think there 
is any danger of their becoming less useful. There; 
are some hours every day that the most constant la- 
bourer is neither at work nor asleep. These hours are 
either appropriated to amusement or to sloth. If a 
taste for employing these hours in reading were culti- 
vated, I do not suppose that the return to labour 
would be more difficult. Everyone will allow, that 
the attachment to idle amusements, or even to sloth, 
has as jiowerful a tendency to abstract men from their 
proper business, as the attachment to books : while 
the one dissipates the mind, and the other tends to 
iucrease its powers of self-government. 

To those who are afraid that the improvement of 
the minds of the common people might be dangerous 
to the state, or the established order of society, 1 would 
remark, that turbulence and commotion are certainly 
very inimical to the feelings of a refined mind. Let 
the matter De brought to the test of experience \nd 
observation. Of what description of pcopl" are mobs 
anu insurrections composed ? Are they not universal- 
ly owing to tlie want of enlargement and improvement 
of minil among the common people ! Nay. let any 
one recollect the characters of those who formed the 
calmer f.iJ more delilierate associations, which lately 
gkrt lo mncb alarm t« 'lie government of this country. | 



I suppose few of the common people who were to b« 
found in such societies, had the educacion and tun. ot 
mind J have been endeavouring to recommend. AU>jif 
me to suggest one reason for endeavouring to enlighien 
the minds of the common people. Their morals°havi! 
hitherto been guarded by a sort of dim religious awe, 
which from a variety of causes, seems wearmg off. I 
think the alteration in this respect considerable, in the 
short period of my observation. I have already given 
my opinion of the effects of refinement of mind on 
morals and virtue. Whenever vulg.ir minds begin to 
shake off the dogmas of the religion in which they 
have been educated, the progress is quick and imm«- 
I diate to downright infidelity : and nothing but refine- 
ment of mind can enable them to distinguish between 
the pure essence of religion, and the gross svslenn 
which men have been perpetually connecting it *ivn. 
In addition to what has already been done foriha 
education of the common people ol this country, ui the 
establishment of parish schools, 1 wish to see the sala. 
ries augmented in some proportion to the present ex- 
pense of living, and the earnings of people of similar 
rank, endowments and usefulness in society ; and I 
hope that the liberality of the present age will be no 
longer disgraced by refusing, to so usefid a class of 
men, such encouragement as may make parish schools 
woi-th the attention of men fitted for the important 
duties of that office. In filling up the vacancies, I 
would have more attention paid to the candidate's 
capacity of reading the EngUsh language with grai;e 
and propriety ; to his understanding thoroughly, and 
having a high relish for the beauties o( English authors, 
both in poetry and prose ; to that good sense and 
kiiowledge of human nature which would enable him 
to acquire some influence on the minds and affections 
of his scholars . to the general worth of his character, 
and the love of his king and his country, than to his 
proficiency in the knowledge of Latin and tjreek. 1 
would then have a sort of high English class establish- 
ed, not only for the purpose of teaching the pupils to 
read in that graceful and agreeable manner that might 
make them fond of reading, but to make them under- 
stand what they read, and discover the beauties of the 
author, in composition and sentiment. I would have 
established in every parish, a small circulating library, 
consisting of the books which the young people had 
read extracts from in the collections they had read at 
scliool, and any other books well calculated to relina 
the mind, improve the moral feelings, recuinmeinl tne 
practice of virtue, and communicate such knowledge 
as might he useful and suitable to the labouring class- 
es of men. 1 would have the school-master act at 
librarian, and in recommending bnuks to his yonne 
friends, formerly his pupils, and letting in the light oT 
them upon their young minds, he should have tlie as- 
sistance of the minister. If once such education were 
become general, the low delights of the public house, 
and other scenes of riot and depravity, would be con- 
temned and neglected ; while industry, order, cleanli- 
ness, and eveiy virtue which taste and independenre 
of mind could recommend, would prevail and flourish. 
Thus possessed of a virtuous and enlightened popidaor, 
with high delight l should consider rny native country 
as the head of all the uatious of the earlb, aucieut or 
modera. 

Thus, Sir, have I executed my threat to tlie fulle*l 
extent, in regard to the length of rny letter. If 1 bad 
not presumed on doing it more to my liking, i should 
no", have undertaken it ; but I have not time to at- 
tempt it anew ; nor, if I would, am I certain thm I 
should succeed any belter, i have learned to have 
less confidence in ray capacity of writiug ua such 
subjects 

I am much obliged by you Wnd inquiries about my 
situation and prospects. I am much pleased with the 
soil of this farm, and with the terms on which I pos- 
sess it. I receive great encouragement likewise in 
building, enclosing, and other conveniences, from my 
landlord, Mr. G. S. Monteith, whose general charac- 
ter and conduct, as a landlord and country gentlemau, 
I am highly pleased with. Hut the land is in such a 
state as to require a jonsideraide immediate or.tUy 
of mone.v m the purchase of inunure, Ute grubhuiK el 



APPENDIX, No. 3- 



163 



Cf^dti-wood, removing of atones, &c. which twelve 
rear»' airii^gle w:ih a farm of a cold ungrateful soil 
liH» but ill [jrepareci me for. If I can get tliese things 
clone, however, to my mind, I think there is next to a 
certrtinty that m five or six years 1 shall be in a hope- 
ful way of atlaiaing a situation which I think as eligi- 
ble for happiness as any one 1 know ; for I have al- 
ways been of opinion, that if a man bred to the habits 
of a farming life, who possesses a farm of good soil, on 
•iich terms as enables him easily to pay all demands, 
Is not happy, he ought to look somewhere else than to 
busilualioi; for the cause* of his uneasiness. 

I beg jou will preseut my most respectful compli- 



ments *.o Mrs. Currle, and remember pie to Mr. aiid 
Mrs. Roscoe, and Mr. Roscoe. junior, whose kind at. 
teations to me, when in Liverpool, 1 shall >ievertoigeU 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your most obedient, and 

Much obliged, bumble Semutt, 

GIL BERT BURNS. 

To Jamu Currie, M. D. F. R. S. > 
Liverpool, | 



( 



